The Penpal
by SimplyMonkey
Summary: Radar's got a new penpal, and boy is she something! Long red hair, beautiful brown eyes, and a soon-to-be-professional ballet dancer. So how in the world does she end up injured at the 4077th?
1. Chapter 1

_AN: My school does this funny thing where seniors get two free weeks between the end of school and graduation, so naturally I spent that time marathoning M*A*S*H. I'm not entirely sure where the idea for this story came from, but it got stuck in my head and I ended up writing up a fair amount of it in just a few hours. It will be fairly OC-centric, focusing on my OC Sam Wilson and her experiences with the Korean War and everyone's favorite MASH unit. I'm hoping to at some point develop this into a Radar/OC romance, but that it going to be a long slow process, and I want to focus on building their friendship first, as well as Sam's relationships with all the other MASHers. Updates may be a bit slow at times, as I do have other fics I'm working on, as well as preparations for college and starting work as an EMT recruit at my local fire department, so the summer looks to be a bit busy. But I promise to try my very best to update at least every couple of weeks - I've got tons of ideas and I really love this story, and I hope to be able to share it with all of you lovely people in its entirety!_

_Enjoy!_

_Edit: Altered the formatting for one of Sam's letters to better indicate the crossed-out section Radar mentions later. The site won't let me include a horizontal dash through the words, so I italicized the portion that she would have crossed out. (8/29/2016)_

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_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have the opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

October 15, 1950

Dear Walter,

I was very happy to receive your address. It's always great to meet another Superman fan. Most of my friends think I'm weird for liking comics, so I don't really get to talk to other fans all that often, so something like this could be very fun.

I've never had a penpal before, so I don't know exactly how this sort of thing works. I suppose I'll begin by telling you a little bit about myself. I'm a seventeen year old girl and I live with my family in a little house in Boston. I like comics (obviously), movies, and baseball. I'm in my senior year of high school, so I'm spending a lot of time on that. I have four pets: two hamsters (Benny and Amanda), a bunny (Flopsy), and a goat (Blueberry). My favorite movie is The Wizard of Oz, and my favorite book is Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck.

Now I have some questions for you. First of all, what is it like in Korea? I know a couple of guys over there, and their letters make it sound pretty miserable sometimes. What do you do there? Also, what do you like to do for fun? What movies and books do you like? Where are you from? What's your family like? What are you friends like? How would you describe yourself?

I hope that this letter reaches you, as I've heard the mail can be somewhat unreliable over there. If you don't want to write back to me, that's fine, but I'd like to hear from you and I'll be awaiting your reply.

Sincerely,

Sam Wilson

* * *

October 20, 1950

Dear Sam,

I was very happy to receive your address too. Don't worry, I don't think you're weird for liking Superman, and I like talking about it too. I haven't had a penpal before either, but it seems to me like your letter was fine for this sort of thing.

As for me, I'm nineteen years old and a corporal in the United States Army (I'm also a boy). I'm from Ottumwa, Iowa, where I live on the farm I grew up on with my mom and my Uncle Ed. My father died when I was really little, so he's not really around anymore. Right now, I work for a MASH unit, which stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. I don't really get to do a whole lot of the medical stuff, mostly just carrying stretchers and stuff like that sometimes, but I actually get to help run the camp itself as the company clerk. This means that I have to make a lot of phone calls and make sure that all the mail and supplies get where they're supposed to go and keep all the files and forms in order. It's not too nice over here, honestly, but we're far enough from the front around here that it's not too bad most of the time. I imagine if I was stuck on the front lines with all the other guys that things would be much worse.

We do lots of different stuff for fun around here. Sometimes there are movies in the mess tent, but a lot of the time everyone's either already seen them, or they're training films from the army, or they're not too good, which is all about the same thing. A lot of the people over here, the doctors and nurses and people like that, can get pretty crazy, though. When we have wounded everyone is very professional-like, but when we don't there's not much stuff to do around here.

A couple of the doctors, Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper McIntyre, they like to play pranks on their roommate, Major Frank Burns. The major doesn't like them very much, but he consoles himself with the company of the head nurse Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan, also a major. There's also another interesting guy, Corporal Max Klinger, who likes dressing up in dresses in order to try to get out of the army on a Section 8 (that means that he's considered to be too crazy to be in the army, which I think is kinda funny because there are a whole lot of nutty generals over here and no one gives them a Section 8 even though some of them could really use one). Other than that, a lot of people like playing poker and getting drunk, but I'm not really into those sorts of things, except for the poker, because there was a game last night and I won twenty dollars on a straight flush!

As for movies, I like the Wizard of Oz too. And I've never read Of Mice and Men, is it good? I don't really get to read all that much, on account of being so busy running the outfit.

And don't worry about my not wanting to write to you, I really do! One of the most fun things around here is getting mail, and even more fun is writing it. I hope that you still want to be penpals with me, as I'd like very much like to keep being penpals with you. I hope that you write back, and I'll be waiting for your reply.

Sincerely,

Walter "Radar" O'Reilly

PS – By the way, what do you do for fun all the way back in Boston?

* * *

October 31, 1950

Dear Walter (or would you prefer if I called you Radar?),

Wow, that sounds like a fascinating place to be! Things tend to be pretty boring around here, although I guess on the bright side we're far enough from the front that things are pretty quiet all of the time.

For fun, I actually do a lot of dancing. I've been taking ballet since I was little, and I'm hoping to get into somewhere good like Juilliard next year (they don't have a dance program right now but they're starting one in the fall). I actually just got to start dancing again after a few months off; I had to take a break because I landed a jump wrong and broke one of the bones in my foot (more specifically, I fractured the fifth metatarsal of my left foot) and I needed to let it recover. It's tough getting back into the swing of things, so I've been spending extra time practicing. I also teach a class for beginning dancers a few times a week.

Other than that, like I said, there's school. I'm a cheerleader and a field hockey player, and I've got a lot of friends to go to parties with. I also spend a lot of time with my brother's friends, who are the ones who mostly tease me about reading comics, haha. I also work in my dad's office sometimes – he's a doctor and my mom's a nurse, and I'm learning to be a nurse, too.

Do you dance at all? It doesn't have to be ballet, it could be anything. And what was it like growing up on a farm? I've always lived in the city, but I've always thought that the country seemed like a really nice place to be.

Write back when you can!

Sincerely,

Sam

PS – Why do they call you Radar?

PPS – Of Mice and Men is a very good book, and I would definitely recommend it, although I have to warn you that it gets pretty sad at the end.

* * *

November 8, 1950

Dear Sam,

You can call me either Walter or Radar, whichever one you like better. Mostly people over here call me Radar, on account of how I always seem to know about things before they happen. It's very helpful when we get wounded coming in and I can let everyone know before they normally would have. My family still calls me Walter, though.

And I do dance sometimes, but I'm not very good. One of the nurses, Nurse Kellye, has been giving me lessons, and I'm getting better. I don't do any sort of ballet, though, although I think it's very cool and neat that you do! I asked some people where Juilliard is, as I have never heard of it before, and they tell me that it's a very good school for dance and music and things like that. Would you consider yourself to be a very good dancer?

In answer to your other question, it was very nice growing up on a farm. Everyone back in Iowa is very friendly and nice, and I got to work with animals a lot, which was great because I really love animals. I even get to keep some around here, a skunk and a raccoon and some rabbits, and there are a few dogs and cats that wander around sometimes. I even made them all their own sets of dog tags! Major Burns, who I mentioned earlier, doesn't like them very much, and Major Houlihan agrees with him like she always does, but everyone else seems okay with them. The Colonel seems to like them, too.

I should tell you about the Colonel. His name is Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, and he sure is a swell guy. To be honest, he's kinda like a father to me. He always gives very good advice, and he always takes the time to listen to me, and to anyone else that has a problem. He's from Illinois, and he misses his wife and kids very much. He misses home. We all do.

Some of the doctors (Hawkeye and Trapper) got a hold of your last letter. They teased me about it a little – I'm not too popular with the ladies around here, so the idea of my writing to a real human girl is kind of funny to them I guess. After they were done with that, they said to tell you that they're sorry about your foot, and explained to me what a fifth metatarsal is. It sounds like it must have been painful! I hope you're feeling better now, and Hawkeye and Trapper do too.

They also said I should ask you to send a picture of yourself so I can know what you look like. You don't have to, but they told me I should ask. I've enclosed a picture of myself, so you'll know what I look like, too. It's a company portrait, so you'll also know what everyone else looks like. I'm the short funny-looking one in the glasses on the left. Next to me is Colonel Blake, then Captains Pierce and McIntyre and Majors Burns and Houlihan. The hairy one in the dress is Corporal Klinger. The one in the cross is Father Mulcahy, he's our company priest, and a pretty okay one at that. The others are all the nurses, and the other enlisted men like me, although I'm still the only company clerk.

You haven't told me much about your family. What are they like? Do you have any brothers or sisters? And what about your friends, how do you like them? Write back as soon as you can please, I really like getting your letters.

Sincerely,

Walter and/or Radar

* * *

November 17, 1950

Dear Radar (I think I'll call you Radar from now on, as I think that's a great nickname),

I've enclosed a picture of myself as you asked. There aren't really all that many photos of me, and almost none of me alone, at least not since I was little, so my brother's in the photo as well. We're twins, so that's why we look so similar. I'm the one with the long hair. His name is Sam too – he's Samuel and I'm Samantha, although neither of us like being called by our full first names so we're both just Sam. My family is mostly just me, my brother, and my parents. My dad is a surgeon, and my mom is a nurse. That's how they met, actually – they both ended up on the same shift at the same time, and decided that they wanted to spend time together outside of work as well. My brother wants to be a doctor just like our father, but right now he's stuck in high school with me, playing soccer and basketball, and running on the track team. I want to be a dancer, but both me and my brother have been working as orderlies and nurses at our parents' hospital for a couple of years now, so I might be a nurse after I'm through with my dancing career.

And yes, I would say that I'm a pretty good dancer. I started taking ballet lessons when I was eight, so I've been dancing for almost ten years now (my brother and I were born on Christmas Eve, so we're very nearly eighteen). I've had the lead role in a whole lot of shows, and won a bunch of medals and prizes at dance competitions. It's a lot of hard work, and not always fun, but it's something I love doing very much. I don't know if I'm good enough to get into Juilliard, but auditions aren't too far away and my routine is in pretty good shape, so I've got my fingers crossed! I'm also applying to a few other good schools, like the University of Indiana, so I'll hopefully have some options even if Juilliard doesn't work out.

I have a lot of friends, but sometimes not very good ones. I'm pretty popular at school, and I'm friends with most of the cheerleading squad, so I've got a lot of people to hang out with. I spend a lot of time with my brother's friends, too, which sometimes annoys him but whatever. I still feel pretty lonely sometimes, though, like there's not anyone I can really talk to. I've got my brother, of course, but there are just some things he wouldn't understand,_ like what it's like to go to a sleepover at Ashley's or Macy's and hear all the girls talk about whichever boys they're dating that week, and hear my voice talking about my boyfriend as if I'm just another person listening and not in control of what I'm saying at all_

I'm sorry, I don't know why I said all that. Mostly it's just nice to have someone knew to talk to, I guess, especially someone so interesting. I saw you in the picture, the guy with the glasses who looks kind of like the sun is in his eyes, right? I don't think you're funny looking at all – honestly, you seem more sweet than anything. I can't imagine why the girls at the camp aren't all over you, especially since you seem to be so kind as well.

What about your friends, what are they like?

Write back when you can!

Sincerely,

Sam

* * *

November 24, 1950

Dear Sam,

I'm glad you like my nickname. A lot of people tease me about it sometimes, but personally I like it too. And I like your name, too. Samantha is a very pretty name, and Sam is too, but I imagine it can sometimes be confusing when you and your brother are in the same room.

I liked your picture by the way. You and your brother do look very similar, but I think that of the two of you, you're much prettier. Boy, are you pretty! It's no surprise that you have a boyfriend, he's certainly a very lucky guy. What's he like?

And I'm glad that you liked my photo, and thought that I looked sweet. I do try to be as nice as I possibly can, but most of the girls around camp go more for guys like Hawkeye or Trapper. I'm just not very good around girls, I guess. I never know what to do, or say, or anything. I'm glad that we can talk through letter, because then you don't have to see how awkward I am, and I don't have to see you if you laugh at me or anything.

Speaking of which, I'm sorry you sometimes feel lonely. You did a good job of crossing out, but I could still read what you wrote (after seeing some of the handwriting around here a person gets pretty good at deciphering things). You can talk to me if you'd like. Maybe we can even be friends! You seem like a really nice girl, and I'd like to be friends with you, if you'd like that too, that is.

Listen, I've gotta go now. The mail goes out this afternoon, but we've just got a whole bunch of choppers full of wounded coming in, and everyone's gonna be really busy until probably sometime tomorrow, and I really want to get this letter in the mail, so I've gotta finish it now. Write back as soon as you can, okay?

Sincerely,

Radar

PS – Hawkeye and Trapper got into your last letter before I did, and they say to tell you that you are far too great a catch to be writing to someone like me, and that also I should not let you get away if I can at all help it. (Don't worry about the crossed out part, they're doctors, not clerks, so they're not too good with handwriting.)

* * *

December 1, 1950

Dear Radar,

I would absolutely love to be friends with you! You're sweet and smart and brave, and I can't think of anyone else I would rather be friends with more.

As for my boyfriend, he's okay. His name is Johnny Miller, and he's the quarterback on my school's football team (how stereotypical, right? a cheerleader dating a football player). He's nice most of the time, but honestly I think he can be kind of mean at times. He pushes around some of the younger kids sometimes, and he drinks a lot and gets into a lot of fights. But he's really sweet around me, always holding open the door for me, and other things like that. He's better than my last boyfriend, at least.

And you can tell Hawkeye and Trapper that if they want to read my letters, they can go ahead and start writing to me themselves. Also that I'm not anyone's "catch," and that I think you are plenty fantastic enough for me to be writing to.

I hope that you had plenty of good luck with the wounded, too! It seems like that would be one of the more brutal parts of the job, seeing all the injuries that come through. Although, I must say, I certainly am glad that you aren't at the front being shot at. I did a little bit of research on MASH units, and it sounds like you've got a very impressive record, and also like it's a lot of hard work. Feel free to talk to me about anything, if you need to. Or even if you just want to. I have to say, it's very impressive that you're managing to work there and practically run the unit as the company clerk, all at the age of only nineteen (I say only, but I'm one to talk as I'm still two years younger than you).

What's your daily schedule like, by the way? What sort of stuff do you do as a company clerk? What parts don't you like? Are there any parts that you really enjoy?

Write back when you can!

Sincerely,

Sam

PS – Radar, my dear, I get the feeling that this is the start of a beautiful friendship!

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_Please read and review._


	2. Chapter 2

_A huge thanks to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed! Seriously, you all rock, and I am honored to have had so much positive feedback from such lovely people! Here's the second chapter of the story. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

Sam Wilson felt a grin grow on her face when she saw the letter on top of the pile of mail in the mailbox. _Samantha Wilson_, written on the front of the envelope in the now-familiar chicken-scratch handwriting of the kind-hearted corporal she had been writing to since October. She pulled the mail out of the box, fumbling through the envelopes to see if there were any others with her name on them. Her movements were made somewhat less graceful than usual by the thick mittens protecting her hands from the bitter January air.

A loud honk behind her made her jump and spin around. Her boyfriend, Johnny, was leaning out of the window of his truck, one hand on the steering wheel and the other arm draped casually over the frame of the window. "Got anything good, babe?"

She smiled and waved the stack of envelopes in the air. "Another letter from that Korean corporal I've been writing to."

His face pulled into a sneer. "Regaling you with more tales of his desk job in a comfy MASH unit?" He scoffed. "If the man had any guts at all, he would be up on the front lines with all the rest of the soldiers, killing commies and making points for democracy."

Sam rolled her eyes and sauntered back to his truck. "Don't talk about him like that, he's a friend of mine." Her smile morphed into a smirk. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

"Who? Me? Jealous? How could you ever suggest such a thing?" He smiled, playing along before pulling her into a kiss. He savored her taste for a few moments, before reaching out with his free hand and tickling his fingers along her ribs.

She pulled away from him, slapping his hand away and giggling. "Stop it, you know how I hate it when you do that." She leaned in and kissed him again, before pulling away and running back up the driveway. She turned around for a moment, waving to him as he honked the horn again and drove away. She watched until his truck was out of sight, then sighed happily and gracefully spun around and trotted up to the front door of her house.

On Tuesdays she was usually the only one home. Her brother had basketball practice, her father was working, and her mother volunteered at a local clinic, leaving Sam all by herself for the few hours in between the end of her day at high school and the beginning of her twice-weekly teaching shift at the local ballet studio. This particular Tuesday was no different, and she found herself alone in the house after struggling her way through unlocking the door without removing her mittens. Placing the mail on the table in the entryway, she pulled off her hat and checked her appearance in the mirror on the wall. _Bit of hat hair, but nothing too bad. At least my makeup's still good._

She dropped her backpack on the ground and pulled off her mittens, scarf, and coat, hanging them up in the closet across the hall from the mirror. The hat she placed on the set of hooks hung on the inside of the closet door. Once she had finished storing her extra layers, she retrieved both her backpack and the mail, and carried both to her bedroom on the second floor of the house.

Upon reaching her room, she again dropped her backpack unceremoniously on the floor. She flopped herself onto her bed and began to sort through the mail a second time, this time unhindered by the bulkiness of her mittens. She set aside Radar's letter to read later, and looked through the rest of the mail. _Bill, bill, junk, bill, medical journal, junk, bill . . . hey, here's one with Sam's name on it! _ Indeed, the front of the envelope was labeled with her brother's name, Samuel K. Wilson. And the return address was . . .

Sam felt something inside her belly drop. She supposed it must have somehow ended up in her throat – it was the only way to explain the curious lump that had suddenly formed there. It hurt, and the violent pounding of her heart certainly wasn't helping. The return address was the address of their local draft board. _Dear God, no. Not Sam._

Ignoring the rest of the mail, as well as any of the possible legal ramifications of her actions, she tore open the envelope and began reading: _Dear Mr. Wilson . . ._

_No, dear God, dear God, no, not Sam, not Sam, no, oh, my God, please no, not Sam, not him, no . . ._

Her mind seemed to be stuck on one track of though. She could not lose her brother. If he went over to Korea, there was no guarantee that he would be brought back. Radar had told her what good medical teams they had over there, but how many times had he written to her about someone who didn't make it, didn't even make the trip to the MASH unit? She and Sam had been together their entire lives, heck, they'd even shared the same womb. Out of everyone in the world, Sam was the one person she could always count on. Sure, they'd had their differences, but he was always there, he had always been there. And if he was drafted, if he'd really been drafted . . . well, then he wouldn't be there anymore. Sam wouldn't be there. He would be gone.

_Dear God, Sam gone, no. No, no way. No way in hell._ She put the letter down on her bed next to Radar's, wiping at her eyes, ashamed of the tears trailing down her cheeks. _Pull yourself together princess, there's a time for crying and this isn't it._ Once she was satisfied that her face was dry, she grabbed up the rest of the mail and ran downstairs to put it on the kitchen table. She immediately darted back up to her room, and froze in the doorway when she saw the two letters lying on her bed. One happy, one sad. Both looked innocent, but both were so different in their nature. She felt a sob building up in her throat, and forced herself to swallow it instead of letting it out like she so desperately wanted to.

Letting out a shaky breath instead, she made her way back to her bed. She left Radar's letter on the bed – she would read it later, once she had calmed down some – and grabbed up the draft letter again, carrying it with her over to her desk. She read through it again, trying to wrap her head around the possibility of her brother really being drafted. Good God, he was still in high school, he was going to be a doctor, they couldn't do that to him! But what could she do? It wasn't like she could go instead . . .

The thing in her belly dropped to her throat again, but this time it felt like her heart had stopped altogether. Like she had told Radar, she and her brother were very similar in appearance. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, and they both had the same straight red hair and rich brown eyes. Their builds weren't too different either – Samuel was naturally lanky, and Samantha's years of dancing, field hockey, and keeping up with her brother had given her a better than average level of muscle tone and definition. Logically, there was very little reason why she couldn't at least attempt to pull it off.

Except that she could get in a heap of trouble if someone found out. And even worse, then Sam herself would end up in Korea. She would have to wait another year to finish high school, at the very least. And that was if she was lucky – it could very well be that she never made it home at all. Would it be worth it? Couldn't Samuel just dodge the draft somehow, maybe take a little trip to Canada for the duration? Would it be worth her life, all her plans for the future, in order to make sure her brother was safe?

* * *

When the rest of her family made it home that night, she didn't mention the draft notice that was lying in her closet in an old shoebox filled with letters and pictures from her days at summer camp. No one went in there, her parents because they didn't care and her brother because he had already been through the whole thing at least a hundred times. She was perhaps more quiet than usual, her laugh more strained, but she was able to brush it off as stress from her dance class – after all, Shirley Thomson and Lily Evers had gotten into a ridiculous fight over hair ribbons that had taken Sam a good ten minutes to resolve.

She kept an eye on her brother the whole time. He was smiling and laughing all the way through dinner, just like he usually did. Was he worth her saving him from the war? Yes, definitely. Was she brave enough to do it? Well, that was the question.

Samuel had always had a fear of loud noises. It wasn't nearly as bad once they got older, but when they were younger, he had always been petrified whenever a thunderstorm had rolled in. Samantha had never been afraid of noises, and it had always been up to her to comfort her brother on dark and stormy nights. Even once they were in high school, there were still some nights when he would come running to her room after the skies started rumbling, and she would spend the night trying to console him as he trembled next to her under the blanket fort they had been setting up on stormy nights since they were children. How could she ask him to go and face the thunder that Radar had written to her about so many times, the kind of thunder that actually could hurt him, just like he had always feared?

As she was lying awake in her bed that night, she realized that she could not ask that of him. It didn't matter what happened to her, she could not ask him to go to Korea while she stayed safe at home. It had always been her job to be brave when he could not, and it always would be. It didn't matter if she was brave enough to be a soldier; the only thing that mattered was that her brother wasn't, and she couldn't live with herself if he was forced to fight anyways.

_Besides, _she though, looking over to the still-unopened letter lying on her nightstand, _I've already got a friend over there._


	3. Chapter 3

_Third chapter, woohoo! A huge thanks to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed. Seriously, you are all so kind!_

_I hope you enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"Hey Radar, where you going?" Radar O'Reilly, company clerk to the 4077th MASH in Korea, jumped when he heard Hawkeye Pierce's question.

"Just bringing around the mail, sir," Radar replied, straightening his glasses.

"Oh?" Hawkeye replied. "Anything for me?"

"Yes sir, hold on just a moment," Radar answered, digging through the mailbag. "Here you go, sir, two letters and a that new copy of Nudes Weekly that you've been waiting for."

Hawkeye snatched the mail from Radar's hand, and his companion, Trapper McIntyre, asked, "How about something for me, Radar?"

"Uh . . . yes, sir, a letter from your wife, and one from your daughters." Radar handed him the letters.

"And uh, Radar?" Hawkeye began.

"Yes, sir?"

"Anything for you, Radar?" Trapper continued. "Something from a lovely redhead, perhaps?"

"Who is still way out of your league, Radar, no matter what she says," Hawkeye added absentmindedly, flipping through his new magazine.

"No, sir, nothing yet," Radar muttered. It had been weeks since he had gotten a letter from Sam, and he was getting a little worried.

"Well, don't give up hope Radar," Hawkeye admonished, looking up from his magazine. "Have you looked through this batch of mail yet?" Radar shook his head.

"Well hurry up Radar, look!" Trapper exclaimed.

The three of them stood together just outside the door of the post-op ward as Radar dug through the mailbag, searching for an envelope addressed to him in Sam's loopy scrawl. Radar pulled out three letters with his name on them: one from his mother, one from one of his cousins, and one in unfamiliar handwriting.

"Um," Radar began, "there's one here that looks like it's from Boston, but I don't recognize who wrote it . . ."

"Let me see," Hawkeye said, snatching the letter out of Radar's hands. He and Trapper both bent over the envelope, examining it closely.

"Yeah, that definitely came from Boston," Trapper concluded, taking the envelope from Hawkeye. "Looks kind of like her address, too." He shot Hawkeye a conspiring look. "Should we open it and see?"

"Hold on just a minute there," Radar snapped. He grabbed the envelope back. "If anyone's going to be reading my mail, it's going to be me, and everyone else can just wait until I'm done with it to find out what's it about."

"Easy there Radar, don't get yourself into a huff," Hawkeye joked.

"Yeah," Trapper agreed. "Why don't you open that letter up and read what's in it, and then tell us?"

"You mean right now? Right here?" Upon seeing the two doctors nod, Radar sighed and shifted the mailbag to his shoulder so that his hands were free to open the letter.

The doctors watched as their company clerk tore open the envelope. They were still watching as his expression changed from curiosity to confusion to agitation as he read through the message.

"What's wrong Radar, did she send you a Dear John letter or something?" Trapper joked, nudging Hawkeye with his elbow.

"Nah, couldn't be," Hawkeye replied. "They'd have to be a couple for that to happen, and as I keep saying, she's way out of his league." He eyed Radar for a moment, examining him. Normally the kid would at least look somewhat offended by a comment like that; his reaction was one of the reasons Hawkeye kept making those remarks, despite his actual opinion that the girl seemed to genuinely like Radar. But Radar didn't show any sign of having heard him, his eyes still firmly fixed on the words in front of him, almost as if he was still struggling to comprehend them. Suddenly concerned, Hawkeye returned Trapper's previous elbow nudge, and jerked his chin in Radar's direction.

"Hey, Radar, what's wrong?" Trapper asked, also concerned. "She didn't really send you a Dear John letter, did she?" Radar shook his head.

"What's the problem then?" Hawkeye asked.

Radar looked around, blinking. Then he gestured towards the door of the post-op. "Here, let's go inside and I'll tell you."

The doctors followed Radar into the dim light of the clerk's office outside Post-Op. The three men clustered together next to Radar's desk, and Radar handed them the letter. "You can read for yourselves. I'm just gonna . . . just gonna work on some filing stuff while you do." He wandered over to one of the cabinets against the wall, opened one of the top drawers, and leaned his head against the shelf made by the files inside.

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged a glance, then turned to the letter and started reading.

_February 4, 1951_

_Corporal O'Reilly,_

_ You don't know me, but in some ways it seems like I know you. My sister has certainly talked about you enough. My name is Samuel Wilson, also known as Sam. My sister, Samantha, has been writing to you for a few months now. She spoke very highly of you, and her eyes would always light up whenever she saw a letter with your handwriting on it in the mail. I know she considered you to be a great friend. With that in mind, what I have to say next is going to be very difficult for both of us._

_ I'm writing to you because Sam has gone missing. No one has seen her for a few weeks now, and no one can figure out what happened. She just vanished in the middle of the night without a trace. I am writing to you because you two seem close, and I was wondering if she might have mentioned anything to you about why she might want to leave, or where she might go, or if there was someone who might want to take her._

_ Please respond as soon as you can. Everyone is very worried, and we all miss her very much._

_Sincerely,_

_Sam Wilson_

Trapper finished reading first, and looked up to see Radar still in the same position against the filing cabinet. Hawkeye looked up a second later. They both looked at each other, neither of them wanting to break the silence but both wanting to know what was going through Radar's head at that moment.

Fortunately for them, Radar once again lived up to his name, muttering, "I don't know anything, if you're wondering."

"Nobody said you did, Radar," Trapper said.

Radar let out a shaky sigh. "What could have happened to her?"

Hawkeye shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Radar couldn't see him. "You're really worried about her, huh?"

"Yeah," Radar answered quietly. He straightened up and slammed the filing cabinet shut, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning back around to face them. "I mean, she's gotta be one of the nicest girls I've ever met, and now she turns up missing. How is that fair? How is that okay? She's funny and kind and sweet, and whatever's happened to her can't be good, can it? She deserves better, she deserves the best in the world, and now look what's happened to her." He shook his head, biting his lip. The most beautiful girl he'd ever had the courage to talk to, and now nobody knew what had happened to her. _Please, Sam. Please be alright._

"Radar," Hawkeye began, a new though occurring to him. _I know I tease him about it a lot, but I never thought it might be true._ "Do you like her?"

"Of course I like her," Radar snapped. "She's my friend, ain't she?"

"He means as a little more than a friend, Radar," Trapper explained.

Radar's jaw dropped. "Well, I never! You two . . . you two can never see a boy and girl talkin' to each other without thinkin' that the two of 'em are a couple, can ya?" He spoke quickly and loudly, his Midwestern accent coming out thick. He ignored the butterfly feeling in his gut at the thought of Sam and him, a couple. "She's already got a boyfriend, ya know? And besides, as you all keep pointing out, I'm hardly good enough for her, am I?"

"Come on Radar, you know we didn't mean it like that," Hawkeye said. "It's just that you seem very worried about her, that's all."

"Well, of course I'm gonna be worried about her," Radar said. "She's missing, God knows where, with God knows what happenin' to her. And I've got her brother writin' to me now, too, askin' me where she is, as if I had anythin' to do with her disappearin' or knew anythin' about it. I only just heard about it, for goodness sakes!" He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, frustrated with the way they were watering.

"Hey, it's okay Radar," Trapper told him. "Just write to her brother and tell him that."

"Besides," Hawkeye added, "they'll find her soon enough. Just wait."

"Yeah," Trapper agreed. "She probably just ran off with that boyfriend of hers or something." Neither he nor Hawkeye wanted to bring up the concern they felt over the fact that she had been missing for more than just a couple of days.

"Yeah, alright," Radar replied. He realized that they were trying to make him feel better by not mentioning how unlikely that was, and decided to just go along with it for the moment. "But it'll have to wait until after the choppers."

"What choppers?" Trapper asked out of reflex, but Radar was already out of the room, yelling to the rest of the camp that they had incoming wounded. He shot a look of despair at Hawkeye; the added drama of wounded was not something that either one of them wanted to be dealing with at the moment. "Well," he asked, "you coming?"

"Yeah," Hawkeye replied. "Just give me a moment." Trapper shrugged and pulled his coat tighter before leaving the warmth of the office to go begin triage. Hawkeye took Samuel Wilson's letter and made sure that it was hidden safely under Radar's pillow, guarded by his ever-faithful teddy bear. Then he, too, left the cozy office to face once again the misery of the cold and the horrors of war.

* * *

Every muscle in Sam's body was hurting, and her foot was starting to ache again. She was already in fairly good shape from all of her ordinary physical activities, but basic training was still quite an adjustment. The food alone was disgusting, not to mention having to sleep in a room with a dozen _men_ – and she'd thought her brother was bad!

But at long last, it was almost over. They'd all gotten their orders: they were shipping out to Korea the next day. Most of her fellow trainees were off somewhere, partying while they still had the chance. Sam and a few others had elected to stay in the bunkroom, sleeping or reading or, in Sam's case, finalizing letters to be sent to loved ones before they left the states. Sam had been working on the letters for weeks, never seeming to be able to get the words just right. She read through the top page she was holding; she figured she had gotten it close enough, but something still felt off. She couldn't think of any other words to use, but it still felt just . . . wrong somehow. Not that it wasn't wrong that she should have to be sending this letter in the first place, anyways.

The ones to her parents and brother were the easiest. All she had had to do was explain to them what she had done and why. It was impossible to phrase gently, and after several failed attempts she gave up and settled on a blunt approach. To her brother, she also included a plea that he avoid blaming himself for the situation she was in – after all, it was a decision she had made of her own free will, and anyways there was nothing to be done about it now.

Nothing to be done indeed. Sam resisted the urge to run her fingers through her newly-shorn hair. Her hair had always been her proudest feature, and she had felt the silliest sense of grief when she had attacked her fiery locks with the old pair of scissors she had found in the bottom of a kitchen drawer. It was foolish, of course, a minor change compared with all the major ones she was facing, but it somehow seemed to lend her actions a level of permanence that hadn't seemed real to her before then.

The letter to Johnny had been difficult. He was a very old-fashioned person, in many ways. On the few occasions when they had been discussing Radar and MASH units and the war in general, he had commented on how unseemly it was that women should be at all involved in a warzone, even as nurses. She had the strong suspicion that having his girlfriend become a regular foot soldier, without even the excuse of following a traditionally female occupation such as nursing, would be met on his part by disgust and disapproval. It was a shame, really – as she had told Radar, while he could be mean at times, he was always courteous and gentle towards her. She enjoyed being with him, and he offered her one more reason to wish that the thought of taking her brother's place had never crossed her mind in the first place. But Sam was, more than anyone else, her family, and no one else would ever come before him in her mind.

Oddly enough, it was the letter to Radar that made her the most nervous. While her family and Johnny would certainly be upset by her putting herself in danger, Radar was the only one who knew firsthand how serious that danger could be. She had done her best to convince the others that the risk to her, personally, was minimal, but Radar would certainly know better. And what could she tell him, anyways? "Hello, Radar, my brother was drafted to I decided to go to Korea in his place, I guess I'll be seeing you soon, huh." That was ridiculous. And stupid. Just like the rest of this whole situation.

In the end she had written down whatever words had come into her mind. She had carefully explained to him what she had done and why, as well as mentioning that she might not be able to write for a while as she didn't know if she would have to time or the opportunity quite yet. She tried to be as gentle and lighthearted as she could – she thought that, more than the others, Radar would need something to try to lessen the gravity of the situation.

She shifted position in her bunk, sighing quietly. Her voice was a slightly scratchy, slightly boyish alto, and she had had a great deal of practice in imitating and mocking her brother, but even so, she had tried to keep talking to a minimum. It had been awkward enough getting through her required physical – it had been extremely difficult to talk the doctor into letting her go through basic training and off to war, although eventually, after a good twenty minutes of him staring at her incredulously, he had agreed to let her pass, saying that perhaps she would have a better chance of coming home alive than someone who didn't have such a good motivation to fight and stay alive. She didn't want to have to go through another scene like that if she could help it.

God, was she tired. She lay back on her bunk, debating whether she should get up and drop her letters in the mailbox now, or wait until morning and try to find some time then. It struck her that in all of her letters there was a tone of farewell, something sad and final. After all, Sam wasn't sure what she would be facing, and there was a little voice in the back of her mind telling her that she would definitely not be returning as the same person who left, or even the same person she was at that moment, if she was fortunate enough to be returning at all.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Hello my lovelies! Just for reference, let's go over what's happened in my life since the last time I updated this story: I spent a month as an EMS candidate at the fire station before resigning to attend my wonderful new university in a completely different part of the country (never fear! I shall be reapplying to the department next year, and hopefully be qualified for leave next fall so I won't have to go through this whole process ever again!). So yeah, basically I've been busy. I did bring my M*A*S*H DVDs with me to college, however, so I will continue to have an excellent supply of inspiration, and hopefully the next few chapters will be somewhat less resistant to having themselves written._

_Thank you bunches to everyone who has favorited/reviewed/followed, welcome back to all my previous readers, and simply welcome to any new ones!_

_Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"Hawkeye," a voice whispered next to his ear. "Hey Hawkeye, wake up, I need you." Something of the urgency in its tone, coupled with the hand shaking his shoulder, roused the doctor from the fatigue- and gin-induced state of unconsciousness he had fallen into after the latest marathon OR session.

"Radar, unless the Chinese are invading or Harry Truman's cancelled the war, I don't want to hear about it until morning," the doctor complained. "Or next century. Whenever I wake up first."

"Please, Hawkeye." The shaking continued. "I really need your help. It's about Sam."

The doctor sighed and shifted his weight in the bed. "What about her? Did they find her?"

"Yes," Radar replied quickly. "Or no. Or kind of?"

"Well that was about as clear as mud, Radar," interjected Trapper, who had been woken by the exchange.

Radar took a shaky breath. "I got a letter," he murmured quietly.

Trapper and Hawkeye looked at each other. They both heard the note of fear in Radar's voice, and to be honest it frightened them as well. Hawkeye looked back over at Radar. "What happened?" he asked, sitting up on his cot.

"It's . . . it's from Sam." Radar's voice cracked on the redhead's name.

"What does she say, Radar?" Trapper asked.

"She . . . she said . . ." Radar began, struggling to talk. "She said she's coming to Korea." He spat out the last sentence as fast as he could, hoping that it would make it easier to say. It didn't.

"What was that?" Trapper asked, at the same moment that Hawkeye said, "Give me a moment Radar, I don't think I heard you correctly."

Radar just held out the letter. Hawkeye took it and began to read, and Trapper climbed out of his bunk and over to Hawkeye's to read over his shoulder. In the letter, Sam informed Radar what had happened: that she had found her brother's draft notice in the mail, that she had decided to take his place in the army, that she was posting the letter the night before she was ordered to head off to Korea, etc. There were several attempts at humor sprinkled throughout the message, but in between the lines it was possible to read the girl's fear and apprehension of what she was doing.

When they were done, both men looked up at the boy standing in front of them. Hawkeye was the first to find his voice. "Oh God, Radar, I'm so sorry."

Radar nodded. "I'm just . . . I'm so scared for her, you know? She's so sweet and I just . . . I don't want her to be hurt, you know?"

"Yeah Radar, we know," Trapper said.

They sat in silence for a time, each thinking of Radar's spunky penpal, and where she might be. The letter was dated two weeks previously, so it was almost certain that she was in Korea at that very moment.

"Wait a moment, I've got it!" Trapper snapped his fingers, his exclamation startling his companions out of their contemplations. "We could go to the Colonel!"

"What good's that gonna do, Trap?" Hawkeye asked. "It's not like he can stop her from being sent to Korea, she's already here."  
"No, I know," Trapper replied. "But maybe he could find out where she is, and we can at least find out if she's okay."

Hawkeye thought about it for a moment. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe he could. What do you think Radar?" He turned to look at the clerk.

"I don't know," Radar answered. "Do you really think that Colonel Blake would be able to find her?"

"I don't know," Trapper replied. "But it's worth a shot, don't you think?"

* * *

"We need you to find someone for us Henry," Hawkeye announced as he, Trapper, and Radar entered Henry's tent. "Sometime last week would be nice, but as soon as possible if that can't be managed."

"And what exactly makes you think that I'd be able to find them?" Colonel Blake snapped. He was always especially grumpy when he was woken up after a long stream of wounded.

"Well, Henry," Trapper answered, "we figured you might have some contacts in Seoul who might be able to track down one Samuel K. Wilson."

"Oh, yeah? And even if I did, why should I waste my time tracking down one particular infantryman when there are hundreds more who're dying who I do have to take care of?"

"Because it's Sam," Radar told him.

Henry looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Yes, Radar, that does tend to be the shortened form of Samuel. But why should I bother looking for this Sam when there are so many other things I have to do?"

"No, Colonel," Hawkeye said quietly, seeing Radar doing his best to choke back tears. _He really is attached to her, isn't he?_ "It's _Sam_."

The Colonel gaped at him, then turned his head and gaped at Trapper and Radar, too, for good measure. Practically everyone in the camp knew about Radar's penpal; the kid would be walking on air for days after receiving one of her letters. He looked at Radar carefully, seeing the red-rimmed eyes, the sadness in his expression. He felt his stomach sink. "Pretty Sam, Radar?" The boy nodded. "What's she doing in Korea?"

"Her brother was drafted, sir," Radar told him. "She took his place."

Henry immediately shoved off his blankets and stood up. He took the pants that Hawkeye handed him and started pulling them on. "Think you feel up to putting a call in to Seoul Radar?"

"Yes, sir!" Radar replied. "Really, sir?"

"Yes, Radar, really," Henry answered. "I can't promise anything, but I can try." As Radar ran off to put the call through, he turned to Hawkeye and Trapper. "You two realize that, even if I can track her down, I might not be able to do anything to get her home?"

"We realize that, Henry," Trapper answered.

"Yeah, but Radar's going crazy not knowing where she is," Hawkeye added. "At this point, I think anything is better that that."

Henry looked at them for a moment. "Do you two ever get the impression that Radar's got feelings for this girl? More than just friendship feelings, I mean."

"Yeah," Hawkeye and Trapper chorused.

"He's got it bad," Trapper added.

Henry sighed. "I hope for his sake that we hear something, then. I can't imagine what'll happen if we don't."

Hawkeye and Trapper nodded in agreement.

* * *

_Until next time, dear readers!_


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: So, I found out that my school has a writing club, and now I get to dedicate at least 40 minutes a week to writing (preferably there will be more time for that, but it's a good bare minimum). I also got a job, and a place on the equestrian team, and a volunteering opportunity at a local clinic, so the writing club is a great way to guarantee that I'll have time to work on my stories._

_Anyways, I'm sure you all care far more about Sam and Radar than you do about me, so I'll stop rambling and let you get on with the chapter. Enjoy!_

_Special thanks to Arctic Winters, who is a very hard worker in her own right - she makes me appear downright lazy! - and who left an incredibly sweet review on the last chapter. Seriously, you rock!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

A week later and they still hadn't heard anything. Everyone was on edge, but no one more so than Radar. The usually friendly and helpful camp clerk had developed a nasty temper, snapping at people left and right, scowling everywhere he went, and generally stewing in the foulest mood anyone could recall ever having seen him in.

"Colonel, I insist that you do something!" Frank Burns said, storming into Henry's office with Major Houlihan a few steps behind him. "That little vermin has gone too far this time!"

Henry groaned, lifting his head off the stack of papers it had been resting on. The search for Sam, in addition to the usual never-ending influx of ordinary paperwork, had left him feeling fried. "What is it now, Frank?"

"That . . . that _enlisted man_ yelled at Major Burns!" Major Houlihan replied. "Colonel, I insist that he be punished immediately, to the fullest extent of military law!"

"Well that's a bit harsh, don't you think, major?" Henry asked wearily. "What was Frank doing at the time for Radar to yell at him for?"

"Nothing!" Frank replied.

"Major Burns was simply reminding some of the kitchen staff of the procedure for properly sorting and disposing of the mess hall garbage," added Major Houlihan. She, of course, had been a totally impartial witness to the entire affair. "Corporal O'Reilly had just walked out of the mess hall when the major was discussing the separation of waste products from compostables, and he began yelling at Major Burns before dumping his entire tray on him!"

Henry eyed Frank, who did indeed have what appeared to be the remains of powdered eggs and oatmeal plastered across his uniform. He sighed. "I'll speak to Radar about it, majors. You may go."

"No, Colonel," Major Houlihan said, slamming her hands down on the desk between them. "That's not good enough this time."

"For goodness' sakes, Major," Henry stood up behind his desk to face her on even footing. "The kid is just upset. I'll talk to him about it, it'll be dealt with. But right now, he needs sympathy and understanding, something which you, as a nurse, I would have expected would know something about!"

"Sympathy for what?" The major demanded.

Henry opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Frank. "Oh I know, that stupid penpal of his, right?" He sneered and turned to Margaret. "The little snot has been over in my tent every night crying to those two _perverts_ about how much he misses the girl." Margaret's eyes grew wide, but Frank didn't notice. "Hmph, serves her right whatever happens to her, running off and joining the army when it was her brother who got drafted, cheating Uncle Sam out of a good soldier, trying to play hero in a man's world . . ."

"Frank, _enough_!" Henry snapped at him. "That kid is going through _hell_, both of them are! You saw how Radar was when she was writing to him, he is completely broken up about this! And as for _her_ . . . she is at this moment fighting for her life along with the best of them, and if anything happens to her, Frank, it is going to break. Radar's. Heart. Which I know you don't care about, but there are a lot of other people around here who do, including me, so you can take your heartlessness and your bigotry and you can _get the hell out of my office_!"

Frank's eyes had grown wider and wider as Henry's speech, and his mouth had fallen open midway through, giving him the appearance, in Henry's mind, of a drowned fish. His jaw worked up and down for a few moments, as if he was trying to speak, but no sounds emerged. Finally, he gave an offended huff and stalked out of the room, doing his best to slam the door behind him. Henry let his head slump back onto his desk, glad to be rid of Frank the Foul-Faced Ferret.

Margaret, however, stayed where she was. Like most other people (with the apparent exception of Frank), she had seen the change that had come over Radar when he had been writing to Samantha. While he was usually cheerful enough on his own, whenever he received one of the girl's letter, he would be positively glowing with joy. She been in love often enough herself, and it didn't take a nurse to recognize the symptoms.

Not to mention that the girl seemed genuinely sweet in her own right. While she had often entertained the idea in her youth of running off and sneaking into the army to fight alongside her father, Margaret had always known that she didn't truly have the strength to go through with it and face the world as a soldier. She couldn't imagine what Samantha must be going through, not even the kind of courage it must have taken for her to take her brother's place on the front lines. Sure, it may not have been the most honest thing but . . . Margaret couldn't find it in herself to agree with Frank. Not this time.

"Colonel?" She asked, her voice softer than usual, almost timid.

Henry raised his head off the desk, ignoring the paper that fell off his forehead, likely leaving ink prints on his skin. "You're still here, Major?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. She took a breath to steady herself. "I'd like to help you try to find Sam."

Henry blinked in surprise. "Well, that's very kind of you Major. But I've been all over Korea. No one knows where she is, or at least no one cares enough to look too hard." He paused, letting that sink in for both of him. "How did you know I was looking for her anyways?"

"I-I figured you were, Colonel, considering how important she was – is, to Radar," Margaret stammered. In reality, she had cornered Captain Pierce on his way to the shower to ask him what was going on with Radar. He had informed her of the entire situation, including his opinions of Radar's feelings for her, and the colonel's search for information (as well as throwing in some lewd comments about what he had – or rather, didn't have – on beneath his robe and would she like to see, comments which were swiftly and firmly rebuffed). "But I have some contacts of my own, sir. I can't promise anything, but I'd like to try to reach out to them and see what I can find."

The colonel gazed at her for a moment. "You really do want to help, don't you?"

"Yes sir, I do," she replied.

"Why?"

There was a pause as the major mulled over her response. "Because it's bad for morale to have the company clerk going around sulking all the time," she finally settled on. "It has to stop, and if finding out what happened to this girl is what it takes, then so be it."

Henry nodded thoughtfully, still staring at her. "You know Major," he said, "you're not half bad sometimes."

Margaret gave him a tense smile in response to the partial compliment. "Thank you, sir."

Henry finally looked away, shuffling through some of the papers on his desk. "Go find Radar and ask him to put your calls through as soon as possible. The sooner we get this all worked out, the better it's going to be, for everybody."

Margaret nodded, snapping a salute with perfect military precision (it ought to be perfect, she had worked so hard for so long to make it flawless) before turning on her heel and marching out the door.

* * *

"I don't see why I have to interrupt my dinner just to make a stupid personal phone call for you, Major," Radar griped, sitting down at his desk. "I'm sure that your date with the general could wait to be scheduled for another half hour."

"With the amount of food on your tray, Corporal," Margaret replied coolly, "the war would be long since finished by the time you were through eating. Now, put my call through to General Hammond."

"It's dialing, it's dialing," Radar snapped. "Geez, I can't make it dial any faster, can I?"

_No, I suppose not, but you can cut it out with the attitude, Corporal_, Margaret thought to herself.

"There, your call's through," Radar handed her the phone. "Now, may I go back and eat, or do you have more pointless assignments for me? Would you like me to go sanitize the garbage or calibrate some tongue depressors or something?"

Margaret bit her tongue for a second to keep from responding. _It isn't his fault, he's lashing out because he's worried about Samantha._ "Thank you, Corporal, that will be all. You may return to your dinner."

He glared at her for a couple seconds before walking off, muttering about there not being a point in returning to a dinner that had gone cold that was barely worth eating when it was hot to begin with.

Letting out a sigh of relief (really, the clerk was just about impossible to deal with these days), Margaret pressed the receiver up to her ear, pasting a smile on her face and a cheerful tone to her voice. "General Hammond? Margaret Houlihan. I was wondering if you could do me a favor . . ."

* * *

_Hope you liked it!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I'm so sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated it, and I have no excuse other than a busy life and a muse that seriously needs to get its act together and stop throwing plot bunnies at me when I haven't even got a decent amount of time to devote to the two stories I'm already dedicated to._

_That being said, I would like to sincerely thank all you wonderful people who are still tolerating my irregular updates for the sake of this story. I promise you it will not be abandoned. I would especially like to thank Black Scarab, Guest, Silence your heart, demonbarber14, Arctic Winters, , Kiwisaurus, and ShigureAyameHatoriFanClub for their kind and encouraging reviews. I know that I didn't reply to you all individually this time, but I did get your reviews and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your kind words and support._

_And now enough of my babbling. You all have been waiting for this chapter long enough. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"Frank, if you don't shut up and keep still, I'm sewing you to the lining of your sleeping bag!" Hawkeye snapped. It was 2 o'clock in the morning, they hadn't had wounded in days, and both boredom and tempers were running high.

"You shut up, you cretin!" Frank shouted back. "I, at least, am trying to do something productive over here!"

"What could you possibly be doing, Frank? Practicing kissing into your pillow?" Trapper propped himself up onto his elbows, staring over at his tentmate, who appeared to be rigging up some sort of pipe and soup can concoction.

"I'm creating a sound funnel," Frank explained. "This way, when in the morning, the glorious bugle sounds," he said with passion in his expression, "I can hear it better than anyone else." He finished with a childish grin at the piece of amateur engineering in his hands.

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged a look. "Frank," Trapper began, "this wouldn't have anything to do with Margaret, would it?"

"What?! No!" Frank spluttered.

"Frank, she'll be fine," Hawkeye answered, ignoring his colleague's protests. "You, on the other hand, won't be for much longer if you continue to keep us awake. Especially since, according to my spies," otherwise known as Radar, "we're due for a huge influx of wounded tomorrow when the 425th tries to retake that hill they lost last week, and we're all going to need all the sleep we can get."

"Major Houlihan can do what she likes," Frank snapped. "It makes no difference to me if she wants to extend her trip in Tokyo for a day or two. She's a grown woman, it's her choice. Why should it matter to me?" And with that he shoved his invention off to the side, turned off his lamp, and burrowed down into his bunk.

Trapper and Hawkeye exchanged another look. Neither of them had mentioned to anyone that they were also eager for Margaret's return. With any luck, she would have at least found out where Radar's penpal had been assigned when she first arrived in Korea. With that information, they would have a strong starting point for their search for the girl.

* * *

Margaret couldn't keep the grin off her face as the jeep pulled into the 4077th. She felt an incredible sense of triumph, and could hardly wait to share the news she had found out with the others in the camp.

As the driver turned into the main circle of the camp, she could see Corporal O'Reilly standing in front of post-op, clipboard in hand, squinting against the sun. _Even with the mood he's in, he still performs his job quite admirably,_ Margaret thought. Not that she would ever tell him that for something as simple as waiting to meet her upon her return.

"Welcome back from Tokyo, ma'am," the boy greeted her. He still seemed to be rather glum, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes, something that had been missing for far too long in Margaret's opinion. "How was your trip?"

"Excellent, thank you," she answered. "Grab my bags, will you, Corporal?"

As the diminutive clerk hurried around to the back of the jeep, Margaret clambered out of the side, careful not to trip over her high heels. Really, they looked fabulous enough, but here in the countryside mud instead of the smoothly paved streets of Tokyo, they were rendered simply impractical. She made a mental note to change into her boots as soon as possible.

"That will be all, thank you, Private," she said, turning back around to face the young man – teenager, really – who had driven her back to the unit.

"No problem, ma'am," he replied. He turned the wheel and stepped on the gas, pulling away from the hospital and back towards the main road that would take him back to his own unit.

A muffled shout of surprise and indignation brought her attention back to O'Reilly. It appeared that he had not been able to get a suitable grip on her bags before the driver had pulled away. Thus both the clerk and the luggage had ended up being tipped backwards into the muddy ground. She strode purposely towards him as he grumbled and attempted to right himself. As she neared him, she noticed a glint of metal on the ground, and stopped to snatch up the corporal's glasses from where they had fallen. "Here you go, Corporal," she said, handing him his eyewear.

A muffled "Thank you, ma'am" was all she got in response.

Margaret pursed her lips, thinking. After a moment, she reached a decision. "Radar," she whispered softly, trying to prevent anyone from hearing her. The boy's eyes widened in shock at hearing the usually regulation – some would say uptight – major address him by his nickname. But before he could say anything, she continued. "I have news about Samantha."

Radar felt like his heart had stopped. Certainly that must be the reason why he felt as if he could no longer breathe. "S-Sam?" He managed to gasp after a moment.

"Yes, Sam," Margaret replied, still speaking as gently as possible. "I've found out where she's stationed."

"Where she's stationed?" The words made sense, in and of themselves, but Radar was still having a difficult time comprehending them.

"Yes Radar," the major answered. "I know where she is. General Hammond told me. He said that he couldn't do anything to send her home – something about the consequences of committing fraud against the American government – but maybe she could come up here for a little while, just so you could see her?"

Radar's head was spinning. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air. There was a rushing sound in his ears; he realized after a few moments of reflection that it sounded an awful lot like his heart pounding, _samSam samSam samSam samSam._

He must have looked awful, because he was distantly aware of someone calling his name. Several someones, actually. The voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place them. His mind was too full of the sound of his pulse. _samSam samSam._

The world came back to him in a rush. He could hear Hawkeye's voice. It sounded close by – right next to him, in fact.

"How could you be so stupid, Margaret?!" The man was shouting. "He's been pining over this girl for months! Couldn't you have at least waited to get him inside?" Radar could feel hands on his shoulders, one large – a man's – and one small – a woman's.

"I didn't expect him to just collapse like that, Pierce!" The major snapped back. "And I'd thank you to remember that you're speaking to a superior officer!"  
"Superior at what, traumatizing young kids?" Hawkeye questioned rhetorically. Before the major had a chance to respond, he had turned his attention to the company clerk, who was currently curled up on the ground, tears running down his face and concerningly unresponsive. "Radar? Hey Radar, can you hear me?" Radar could feel the larger hand squeeze tighter on his shoulder.

The smaller hand tightened as well. "Corporal? Corporal O'Reilly? Can you open your eyes please?"

Open his eyes? But weren't they already . . . oh. That would explain why everything had gotten so dark all of a sudden. Radar squeezed his eyes tighter together, trying to get the feeling back in his eyelids. Then, with a tremendous amount of effort, he managed to pry them back open. He blinked, letting his eyes readjust to the light in the sunny compound.

He could see Hawkeye's worried face in front of him. "Radar? What happened?" The man asked gently.

"Sam," he told him, as if that explained everything. (And, in many ways, it did.)

"Yes, Radar?" Hawkeye asked. "What about Sam?"

Radar gestured vaguely in Margaret's direction.

She pursed her lips. "Perhaps we should take this discussion inside," she said. "I think the Colonel would be interested in hearing this as well."

Hawkeye looked torn, but acquiesced when Radar nodded minutely and gasped, "Yes." He pushed his glasses back up his nose – they had slid down at some point, making the angle between his eyes and the lenses all awkward – and began walking towards the Colonel's office.

Hawkeye and Margaret exchanged a glance and followed him.

Thankfully the Colonel was in his office when they arrived. Hawkeye didn't want to have to deal with keeping Radar calm while they were waiting for the man, and he was almost certain that Hot Lips would refuse to elaborate on the information she had discovered without Henry present.

"What do you want now, Pierce?" Henry asked as they walked into the office, eyes remaining fixed on his papers. After a moment, he glanced up, catching sight of Radar's face. His own expression morphed into one of puzzlement and concern. "Radar? What's wrong?" His eyes flicked over to Margaret. "And Major Houlihan! When did you get back?" His gaze tracked between the three of them for a few moments, sizing up the situation and the tension between the group. "What's going on here?"

Before the others could speak, Margaret had stepped forward. "Colonel Blake, I have news about Samantha," she reported formally.

Henry blinked, taking a moment to process her words. "Oh. Well," he began. "Well, that's just excellent!" His voice took on a tone of enthusiasm. "What did you find out?"

"Where she's been assigned, sir," the major replied. "She's with the 425th infantry."

"Fantastic," the colonel replied. "I'll just call up their C.O. and ask to speak with Ms. Wilson . . . and . . ." He trailed off, noticing the sudden heavy silence in the room. Hawkeye was staring at Margaret, his jaw hanging open. Henry didn't think the man was even blinking, so complete was his focus. And Radar . . . Radar looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach. His face seemed to have drained of all color and his eyes were wide and stunned. "What's wrong?" He asked, suddenly serious.

"That's where the wounded are coming from, sir," Radar whispered, sounding choked.

"Wounded? What wounded?" Henry asked. His spirits were rapidly sinking, and he was desperately hoping that what he thought was happening wasn't really happening. Maybe it was all some sort of sick nightmare, and he would wake up any second and wander out into the compound to see Radar smilingly announcing that he had received a new letter from Sam, who was safe and sound back in the States. That could happen, right? It was perfectly plausible, much more so than what was happening at the moment.

"The ones on the choppers, sir," Radar informed him, swaying a little as his sensitive ears caught the sounds of approaching choppers, still too far away for any of the others to hear. He turned and ran out to announce the arrival of more wounded to the rest of the compound.

Hawkeye made a move to follow him, but before he could get farther than a few steps, Henry's voice called him back. "Pierce, what's going on?"

Hawkeye swallowed hard and turned back around. "The 425th," he started, before pausing and clearing his throat. His voice had sounded far too hoarse to be understood, and he only had a few moments before he had to run off to the scrub room to get ready to operate. "The 425th. Where Sam's stationed. They just tried to retake a heavily guarded hill." He heard Margaret gasp softly beside him. "I don't know what the outcome was and I don't care; there's a very good chance that Radar's girlfriend may be out there dying with the rest of them."

He turned and ran off without waiting for either of them to respond. He had a job to do, and either Sam wasn't there and there would be time for more explanations later, or she was and she would need all the help she could get.

Margaret and Henry stared at each other for a few moments before taking off after Hawkeye. They, too, were determined to help Sam if she had ended up as one of the injured.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Ick, it's finals season. My very first in college. And bahbahbah-bah-bah, I'm (not) lovin' it!_

_Anyways, sorry this has taken so long. I actually had it finished a few weeks ago, but I've been so freaking busy with all the end-of-semester obligations that I haven't had time to edit and post it until now._

_So here you go, to everyone else who is currently suffering through finals, or will be sometime soon, this chapter is dedicated especially to you. Together we can get through this!_

_Thank you to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed the last chapter! You guys rock!_

_I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The sound of the first bullet was always unexpected to Sam. Perhaps it shouldn't have been, considering she knew beforehand that this particular mission was going to be a violent one. Nevertheless, she couldn't stop herself from being startled when the shooting started.

It was a nasty adrenaline rush, especially when a shot hit home and she had to watch yet another of her friends crumple to the ground.

As she ran up the hill, bullets flying past her, rifle gripped tightly in her hands, gasping half-formed prayers _Hail Mary full of grace let me live please God let me live_, she wondered absently what would happen if she were to be injured. Sometimes she almost wished that it would happen sometimes, so she could get out of the field, away from the battles and the death, and end up in a place where the doctors were funny and the nurses kind and the company clerk was a good friend of hers with glasses and a sweet smile.

Up ahead, Sam saw Randy trip and fall. Red paint was splattered across his uniform. A brilliant poppy stain was spreading across the green fabric. Like his little sister's fingerpaintings, shown proudly around camp.

Not paint. Blood. Spreading and gushing and soaking. Not clotting. Major vessel probably, possibly more than one.

Sam skidded to a stop next to him, dropping to her knees then down to her belly to try to provide as small a target as possible. This close, she could hear the boy's moans. Grabbed his shoulder. Flipped him over. Big gaping hole. Squishy flesh poking out. Dear God, were those . . . leaned back, turned away, gagging. Yep. Intestines. Bit of something else, maybe stomach or pancreas.

Opened her mouth to scream. Big explosion. Hot and loud. _Shit. Artillery. Shitshitshit._ Sharp debris flying. Dust stinging her eyes. Scorching and choking. Flung herself down over a body. Body writhing, moaning, screaming. Begging pleading crying. _Please God. Please God, please please please I don't even know what I'm asking for but pleasepleaseplease . . ._

Tried to scream again. Scream for help. Must have worked. Red lines on white on green sleeve and metal helmet. Metal like the metal in her mouth and on the ground and covering her hands where they pressed on the belly underneath and in front of her. Bag offered. Rip it open. Bandages. Sulfa. Hands trembling. Scrambling. Clumsy. _Hurry up, damn you!_ Gasped apology. Move faster. Surer. _You can do this._

More explosions. More screams. _You've got this here?_ Nod yes. Steady hands. Clear mind. No sound no noises no danger just helphelphelp.

Working. Mindless. Stop the bleeding, clean the wound, bandage. Call for stretcher. Help carry. Chopper or jeep? Chopper. Looks bad. Where to? 4077th. Sounds familiar. Can't remember. More screams. Back to work.

Countless bodies. Cases patients friends. Trip over bodies. Check them over. No hope. Move on. More bodies friends patients. More wounded.

CO comes up. Starts yelling. _The fuck do you think you're doing? Get up there with the rest of the men!_ Anger. _Who made you a medic? You're a soldier, soldier. Do your fucking job!_

Running back. With others. Rifle slick. Blood on hands. Can't keep. A good grip.

See a face. Up ahead. Slanted eyes. Dark hair. Shiny like gunmetal. Pointed this way. Draw up gun. Point and shoot. Crumpling, spitting blood. Move along, move along. Never stop, never think. Never grieve. Just movemovemove always forward.

Hit by something. Doesn't hurt. Grabbed arm. Lost balance. Trip, fall backward. Face up. Sky is beautiful. Water on face. Hard to breathe. _Don't cry, don't let them see you cry . . ._

Hear sobbing. Not own. Look to side. What's his name? Trevor. Sixteen. Reeks of charred flesh. Bloody charcoal. Neck and face. Spreading over arms and chest.

Still smoldering. Pull off jacket. Gasp. Sudden white hot ouch goddamn motherfucker what the hell. Racing up arm.

Not lightheaded. No dizziness. Still moving. Ignore it.

Jacket. Over Trevor. Press down. Screaming. _Sorry._ Smother flame. Choking. Smoke and dust. Try to speak. Throat too dry. Like sandpaper. Try again. _Help! Medic! Help!_

What's his name? Howard? Sweet guy. Mid-twenties. Runs up. Grabs shoulder. Looks at arm. _Not me. Look at him._ Eyes widen. Swears. Yells for stretchers. Stretchers? _I can walk_. Looks doubtful. _Really._

Finally nods. _Fine_. Wraps bandage around arm. _Keep pressure on it._

Stretcher there. Help move Trevor. Lift his body. Whimpers. Too weak to scream.

Bend low. Run to chopper. Alongside stretcher. Climb into cabin. With pilot. Belt up. Lift off. Belly drops. See too much. Too high.

Pray for a long time.

(line break)

Tents in a horseshoe. Olive green against muddy ground. People scrambling around, small like ants. She looks down. Reminds herself to breathe deep breaths. Relax. You're safe now.

Arm started to hurt a while back. She grabs it, putting pressure on. Bites her lip against the pain. It's nothing compared to Trevor's. She can see him, head lolling limply from side to side. Doesn't know who's on the other side. Hope he's alright.

Takes a moment to observe pilot as he lands. Obviously skilled, especially with no one shooting. She feels a bit safer.

People run towards the chopper, hunched over. Some look familiar. Curly hair, brown eyes. Another, black and blue. Should be smiling, bathrobes, yellow and red. So serious now, so dedicated to their work, like she knew, she already knew that, why does it seem so strange, like they're different people?

Scared, suddenly. It's finally hitting her. Breathing hard and fast, labored, like she's been running for miles or dancing all day.

Reach the chopper. Unloading stretchers from chopper and jeeps. She tries to get out, stumbles, almost falls. Small person, standing next to her, catches her. Pulls her arm over his shoulders, helps her over to jeep. Sits in front, next to him. Small, glasses. She wants to see him smile, see it in person. Hear his voice. Is it the way she imagined it?  
He says nothing. Doesn't seem to recognize her. Supposes she can't blame him. He hits the gas, driving down to main camp.

She's surprised to see tears on his face. He'd told her that he didn't cry much, not after the first few months. Why now?

Make it to camp. Unload stretchers. Triage in the compound. She sees more people, serious expressions on once-smiling faces. Not how she wanted to meet them.

They made her wait for a long time. Her injuries were determined to be less serious than others. Certainly less serious than injuries like Randy's and Trevor's. She wonders what happened to them, if they even made the trip.

For a long time, she stayed in the same spot, curled up on the floor in a corner of the pre-op ward. After a while, so many hours that she lost count, they made room on a cot for her to sit and wait. People moved in and out, but she didn't see her bespectacled friend again. She wished he was there with her, to talk with and share jokes with and distract her from what she'd just seen, from what she'd seen over all the time since she'd left home. But instead she just had to wait, calming her breathing and slowing her pounding heart back to something resembling a normal pace.

She didn't know when she'd fallen asleep, but she woke to a dark-haired nurse shaking her gently, telling her she could go into the OR now for treatment.

Blinking wearily, she stood and followed, proud of herself for only swaying a little when she first stood up. The lights seemed unusually bright to her after her nap of unknown length, and she squinted against them.

The whole scene seemed surreal. The OR was filled with clean white sheets, illuminated with lamps – actual electric light! She was greeted by sober masked figures, standing around a bed, waiting for her. It reminded her of the nightmares she would sometimes have when she was little, after the first time she heard a reading of _War of the Worlds _and a discussion of alien abductions, of extraterrestrials kidnapping her and taking her up to their spaceships for experiments. She hesitated, freezing for a moment.

The man, presumably the surgeon, eyed her warily. "You alright, kid?" He asked, his accent familiar and comforting, sounding like the ones she sometimes heard back home. Her eyes strayed to his cap, spotted the brown curls peeking out beneath it.

She forced herself to relax. These people weren't here to run experiments on her or cut her into pieces; they were here to take care of her. She nodded, resuming her path up to the table. She turned around and hopped up on it, facing the doctor who would be taking care of her.

"Let's get this guy's shirt off, okay? I need to get a good look at that arm," Trapper ordered. It sounded more like a request, the nurse's daughter in Sam noted with approval. She tried not to flinch away when the blonde nurse behind her began to cut away at her shirt. Some residual modesty tried to flare up, telling her to be embarrassed, that it wasn't proper to let a bunch of strangers see her bare skin like this. She shoved it away, ignoring its stupidity.

She winced a little as something tugged on the wound. "We'll give you something for the pain in a minute, Private," the nurse said crisply.

"It's fine," Sam murmured. "It doesn't hurt that badly."

"You got shot, kid," the surgeon told her, raising an eyebrow. "You're allowed to admit it hurts, you know."

Sam nodded her head, biting her lip as the last of the shirt sleeve was pulled away from her arm. She immediately looked over to assess the injury. There was a neat bullet hole in one side of her arm, a dark circle of torn bloody flesh.

Trapper eyed the soldier in front of him. He had been a bit concerned when the kid had turned to look at his injury – people had had all sorts of negative reactions to far less serious wounds. Just ask Frank "How-The-Hell-Did-Such-A-Wimp-Become-A-Doctor" Burns. But the kid seemed to be handling things pretty okay. "You alright, kid?"

The kid cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I've seen a lot worse."

Trapper raised his eyebrow again. "Yeah? That must have sucked." He took the syringe that Margaret handed to him and shot a local into the area of the injury. The bullet had passed straight through without hitting any major structures, so it was mainly just a matter of stitching the wound closed and giving the soldier a few days to heal before, unfortunately, sending him back to the lines.

"Did–" the kid started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "Would you know what happened to my friends, the ones who were brought here?"

"Well, I don't know," Trapper said. He usually tried to talk with the soldiers while he was working on them. To distract them from what he was doing, that sort of thing. Usually he chose a topic a bit less morbid, but this one seemed to be catching the kid's interest already, so he didn't see any point in trying to change the subject until the kid started getting upset. "What were their names?"

"Randall Curtis. Jack Mitchell, Tony Brigham, Marcus Brewer . . . I don't even know. There were so many of them. Trevor Ryans, too."

"I don't know, kid. I'm sorry," he said. "I could ask around for you later, though."

"Thanks," The kid bit his lip, his voice quavering. It had broken in a few places, jumping up to a higher range occasionally as he spoke.

This, of course, caught Trapper's attention. "How old are you, kid?"

The kid blinked at him. "Eighteen," he answered.

"Uh-huh," Trapper said, disbelief coloring his tone. "And how long have you been eighteen?"

"Since Christmas," the kid replied, shooting him a mild glare. "You don't believe me."

"Not a bit, kid," Trapper told him. "You're too skinny and your voice is too high. Now how old are you really?"

"I told you, I'm eighteen," the kid snapped.

_There it is again, that higher register._ "Look, kid . . . what's your name?"

"Sam," the kid said bluntly. "My name is Sam."

Trapper swore that if this kid made him raise his eyebrow one more time it was going to get stuck that way, and then he was going to make the kid pay for the operation to fix his face. "Look, Sam, I get it. Go to war, get the glory, get the girl . . . but this isn't a game. You could really get killed out here."

The kid blinked hard, but wasn't able to stop a tear from falling. Trapper watched, fascinated, as it dropped from the kid's eye to his cheek and began making its way down his face. "Don't you think I know that, Trapper?" The kid asked softly.

Trapper blinked, shocked. "How do you know my name?"

The kid reached up and wiped away the tear, smearing new patterns in the grime covering his face. He shot the doctor a half-hearted grin. "Come on, surely I'm not quite _that_ forgettable." At Trapper's confused look, the kid continued. "Sam? Sam Wilson?"

Trapper felt like his brain had stopped working for a second. He heard Hot Lips gasp behind Sam. It took him a moment to realize that the kid was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. "Sam? As in . . . Samantha?"

The kid made a face, scrunching up his – no, her – nose and eyebrows. "Sam," he – she – replied firmly.

"Right, sorry. Sam," Trapper answered, mentally shaking himself. "You do realize that Radar's been worried sick about you?"

She bit her lip. "Yeah, I kind of figured." She hesitated, but apparently decided that what she was going to say had to be said. "I saw him on the drive down from the helipad. He was crying." Her voice was soft and sad and worried. It struck Trapper that she might very well care about Radar as much as the boy cared about her.

"We've been looking for you since Radar got you letter," Trapper explained. "Margaret only got back today, to tell us where you were."

"Wha- How?" Sam asked.

"I have a . . . friend, who's a general. I asked him if he could look for my cousin, Samuel Wilson, as a sort of favor," Margaret explained as she bandaged Sam's arm. "Is there anything else that hurts?"

Sam shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Just tired." And she was. Now that the adrenaline of the day had quite thoroughly worn off, it felt like all of her energy had been drained out. _Almost there sweetie, you can do this._ "S-so, I'm guessing Radar knew that I might be one of the wounded coming in?"

Trapper nodded, looking the kid over one last time. She didn't seem to be otherwise injured, just tired and shaken up, as anyone would be. "The kid's too well informed for his own good."

Sam let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah, yeah he is," she said, nodding. "Wh-where is he?"

"Hawkeye noticed how upset he was, so he sent him to get some rest," Trapper answered.

Sam nodded again. "C-can I see him?"

Trapper looked at her. The stress of the day combined with her injuries had taken a toll on the girl. She was shaking like a leaf. "No, I don't think so." He held up his hand as she began to protest. "No, Sam, I know, I know. But look at you, you're exhausted. You need some rest. Radar's still going to be here tomorrow, after you've gotten a little sleep."

Sam locked eyes with him, refusing to back down. "And I can see him then?"

Trapper smiled. _Yep, she's from Boston all right._ "Yes, you can see him then."

* * *

_Hope you liked it!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hello again darlings! I am so sorry for the delay; college has been kind of a hot mess since I published the last chapter. I ended up getting tonsillitis in the middle of my first finals week, and then just barely scraped through second semester Chem with a C (which isn't doing my GPA a whole lot of favors, but at least I passed)._

_But, at last, it's over! And I can get back to writing for all of you lovely people. Thank you so much for your kind words in reviews, and your support in favorites, follows, reviews, etc._

_Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"Hey, Trap, whatcha thinking about?" Hawkeye asked, plopping down next to his comrade-in-scalpels (which was, on second thought, perhaps not the best one-liner he had ever come up with).

"I found Sam," the man replied bluntly, taking a sip of the coffee he had been nursing for a good half an hour.

Hawkeye blinked, needing a moment to process what he heard. All it took was that moment, though, for any hope of frivolity to go rushing out of him like a river, leaving him with the unpleasant sensation of just having swallowed a pound of gravel. "How bad is she?"

Trapper grunted, taking another sip. "Nothing too serious. Flesh wound in the arm, no major damage. Should be okay."

"Oh," Hawkeye nodded, going back to processing. "Nothing that will get her sent home, though."

"Nope." Trapper shook his head. "You know what the first thing she asked me was?"

"What?"

"If I knew how her friends were doing."

"Yeah," Hawkeye sighed, staring at Trapper's coffee. He wondered absently what it was made of. _Perhaps_, he mused, _we ought to run a lab analysis on it one day. Whatever the hell it is, it sure isn't coffee._ "She's a good one. We all knew that."

Trapper hummed thoughtfully, also considering his coffee. "This was after she got done telling me that her bullet wound didn't hurt."

Hawkeye whistled. "Tough kid."

"Yeah." Trapper was silent for a moment before continuing. "Look, you wouldn't happen to know what happened to a Randall Curtis or a Trevor Ryans, would you? I told her I'd ask."

"I'm not sure I'd be able to tell you my own name right now, let alone some kid's whose insides are more familiar to me than his face," Hawkeye replied morosely. _Damn war._

Trapper was quiet for another second, before pushing the mug of dark mystery liquid away. "Well, I suppose we can just ask around in post-op tomorrow." He stood up, moving as if to leave.

"Hey, hey," Hawkeye stood up next to him, grabbing his arm. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the swamp. I think I'm in need of a little liquid amnesia tonight." Trapper shrugged off his friend's arm.

"Aren't you going to tell Radar?" Hawkeye asked. "Or Henry?"

Trapper paused. "Let's let them both get a little sleep before we bring this up, okay? It's been a long day. For everyone."

Hawkeye nodded. He watched as Trapper walked out of the mess tent, wishing that there was something more that they could do. He hadn't wanted to bring it up, but he did recognize the names of the kids that Trapper asked him about.

But that was also a conversation best left until everyone had had a little time to recover from the worst of this latest deluge.

* * *

_He was in a concert hall of some sort, sitting in the audience. All around him were men in top hats and women in evening gowns. It made him feel rather out of place, and he shrank back in his seat, hoping no one would notice his incongruous green fatigues._

_ On the stage was a ballerina with vivid red hair held back by sparkling rhinestone clips. He watched, stunned, as she spun around in a graceful pirouette. He was amazed at how she could balance her entire weight on the toes of a single foot, particularly the foot that she herself had told him had only recently recovered from a serious injury…_

_ He noticed with trepidation that the dancer was not alone on stage. In the background, shadowy figure were moving about, darting across the stage and dodging in between the artificial bushes and trees dotting the fake landscape. He noticed, worriedly, that the girl on stage didn't seem to notice their presence, a smile glued firmly on her face. Glancing around him, he saw that no one else in the audience seemed the least bit surprised at what was happening. In fact, some of them seemed rather eager to see what happened next._

_All of a sudden, one of the figures materialized behind her. It raised the weapon in its hands, locking her in its sights. She continued with her routine, whirling around the stage, dodging bullets by sheer magic and chance. It felt like something had glued Radar's feet to the floor; when he looked down, he could see paperweights on his toes, holding him in place. He kicked at them, trying to dislodge them so he could rush forward and pull the dancer out of danger._

_ He looked up again. The girl had finally noticed the figure. She stood completely still, staring at it, eyes wide, her mouth still pasted into its unnatural grin. He watched as she moved her hands, gesturing frantically. With a jolt, he realized that she was trying to communicate with the figure. She held her hands up by her shoulders in the universal sign for surrender; she gestured at the figure and at the audience and at herself; she pressed her hands together, prayer-like, and held them in front of her heart._

_ The figure was still for a moment. Its gun lowered. Radar held his breath, hoping. Then he began to kick harder against the weights on his feet as the figure raised its rifle again and shot a single bullet directly at the redhead._

Radar woke with a jolt, wincing at the awkward position he seemed to have twisted himself into during the night. His face was pressed into the wall near the top corner of his cot, and it felt as if one, if not both, of his feet were dangling off the edge of the opposite side. His arm was pinned against a lump just below his pillow, and he realized with a pang of regret that he had fallen asleep with his bear smushed underneath him.

He sat up slowly, sighing and doing his best to work out the stiffness that had crept into his muscles. He picked up the bear, checking it over to be sure it wasn't hurt. Nope, nothing – at least that was one friend he knew was okay.

He swallowed down the wave of nausea left over from his dream. _It wasn't real, don't worry about it, it wasn't real,_ he told himself, repeating it over and over like one of those mantra-thingies an injured soldier had told him about when telling him about the guy's yoga-loving girlfriend. He felt a blush rising in his cheeks, as that thought lead to some of the _other_ things the man had told him about yoga and girlfriends and the interesting – and, in Radar's opinion, somewhat unbelievable – ways that the two could mix.

And boy, if his mom wouldn't wash his mouth out with soap for just _thinking_ about some of those things, let alone the idea of repeating them . . .

But why was he still so sickened by his dream? Radar remained sitting on his cot, the bear still balanced in his hands. He tried to puzzle it out. It wasn't that nightmares were anything new to him – he lived in a front-line MASH unit, for goodness' sakes. It wasn't even the first time he' had a dream about Sam in the war. Those did tend to scare him a little more, as there wasn't much he could do to make sure she was safe, not like everyone else, who he could just call or write or even just see the next morning trying to choke down whatever imitation food was being served in the mess tent that day. But even those didn't leave him with this same awful feeling afterwards, and whatever dread _was_ there was usually pretty easy to chase away. So why . . .

_Oh._ Now he remembered. This latest batch of wounded came from Sam's unit. The sick feeling intensified. He still didn't know if she was among them – he had been trying to keep an eye out for her while he was working, up until Hawkeye had seen the look in his eyes and told him in no uncertain terms to go get some sleep and let the rest of them handle what was left.

But he couldn't remember seeing Sam. He hoped desperately that it was simply because she hadn't been among the wounded, that she was okay and fine and someplace safe with the rest of the uninjured men. Or maybe, as a second best, that he hadn't seen her because he simply hadn't noticed her, hadn't had a reason to notice her in the chaos of dealing with so many dying kids where someone with less severe injuries could easily go unnoticed in comparison. Because the alternative – that she had been injured but, for any of a variety of reasons, hadn't made it to the 4077th – was too frightening to consider.

With conscious effort, Radar safely stowed his teddy bear under his pillow, and pulled his glasses off the hook on the wall. He stood up, stretching out his stiff joints. _How long was I asleep?_ He checked the battery-powered clock on the wall over his desk: 3:17 am. _About ten hours, wow!_ It was the most sleep he'd gotten since his last R&amp;R in Seoul.

He hurried through the door into post-op. The beds were all full, and it seemed like no more patients were being brought in. The influx must be over then.

It would explain the silence. Usually when there were wounded, even with breaks in between the shipments from the front, there was a cacophony of activity in the compound. Afterwards, however, it was as if the camp was unconsciously trying to make up for the noise with an equal level of quiet. Perhaps it was due to that lull that Radar had slept so long.

He made his way down the room to the desk of the duty nurse. It was Major Houlihan this shift. "Hello, Major," he muttered, reluctant to break the momentary peace. "Can I help with anything?"

She looked up from the paperwork she had been looking over. "No, thank you, Radar." She took a sip of coffee from the mug sitting on the desk, wincing when the liquid hit her tastebuds. "God, that's awful. Oh, Radar, have you had a chance to see Sam yet?"

Radar knew that his expression must make him look like a deer in the headlights. "S-Sam?"

"Yes," Margaret replied, eyeing him. "She was brought in with the wounded. But don't worry," she said hurriedly, seeing the color drain out of his face at an alarming rate, "she only had minor injuries. She's sleeping now. You can see her, she's got the last bed on the right."

"O-Okay," Radar said. He barely managed to avoid tripping over his feet as he turned.

For the rest of his life, the walk down the rows of beds would seem like a dream. He couldn't feel his feet – it was as if he was floating through the room, his eyes fixed on the form occupying that last bed in the corner. It seemed as if the walk lasted less than a second, and at the same time stretched into an eternity.

And then it was over, and he was standing at the foot of her bed. For a terrifying moment, he thought that she must be dead. Complications happened all the time, and sometimes there was no way to prevent them.

Then he saw the rise and fall of her chest. And he felt dizzy as he realized that she was _alive_. Alive and safe and there, there she was, right in front of him. He let his eyes roam over her face, the rusty slant of her eyebrows, the graceful curve of her cheekbones, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered up to the bright red on top of her head, the hair she'd been so proud of and must have cut herself, the night she left, to save her brother . . .

And it struck him that this girl, this lovely, amazing, strong, courageous girl, was his friend. And how very, very lucky he was to have gotten to know her.

Margaret watched as Radar pulled a chair up beside Samantha's bed and sat down. She couldn't keep herself from smiling as he picked up the girl's hand and held on to it as if she would disappear the moment he let go.

Still smiling, she returned to her paperwork, satisfied that both kids were going to be okay.

* * *

_Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Hello lovely people! My sincerest apologies for having taken so long to write this chapter - my muse has been busy tromping around various other fandoms, so reigning her in long enough to get the chapter written was quite a task. I was also very busy with schoolwork and the like, so other extracurriculars - like sleep, food, hygiene, etc. - took precedence over writing for a while._

_That being said, I want to thank everyone who followed and favorited this story, and especially all of you wonderful reviewers for your kind comments. Seriously, thank you all so much._

_I won't bore you with more chatter on my part, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the chapter. :)_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"I guess the question is, what do we do now?" Trapper said, looking around the room. The main officers of the 4077th had all gathered in Col. Blake's office (after grabbing some much needed sleep, of course).

"Send her home, of course!" Frank blurted out immediately. "War is no place for a woman."

"We can't do that, Frank," Trapper said slowly, as if explaining to a child. "There would be too many legal repercussions for her – she'll be up in front of a judge and sent to prison before you could blink."

"Trapper's right," Henry agreed. "We have to keep this close, and keep it quiet. The more people who know about it, the more dangerous it is for her."

"As dangerous as the war is?" Hawkeye remarked. "I know what you're saying, Henry, but the girl's getting shot at over here. I'd say that even prison would be a lot safer for her than that."

"And anyways, who's to say that they'd even punish her?" Father Mulcahy added. "I find it hard to believe that anyone would have the heart to punish a girl for trying to save her brother's life."

"Your faith in humanity is touching, Father," Trapper grunted. "But I'm sure they would. The United States Army, in all its compassion, wouldn't bother pulling its head out of its ass long enough to ask for her reasons. No, all they'd see is that they drafted her brother and got her instead, and that someone has to pay for the mix-up."

"Well, I for one say she deserves everything she would get," Frank sneered. "Just imagine, a whelp like that having the nerve to cheat Uncle Sam out of a perfectly good soldier just to stop from getting her feelings hurt."  
"Are you kidding me Frank?" Henry snapped. "You want to ruin the rest of this girl's life by giving her a criminal record for _willingly_ coming here to do things that most fella's would get medals for after being dragged here kicking and screaming?"

"Yes, but Henry, which is worse?" Hawkeye asked. "A criminal record, or a ride home in a casket?"

"Why are we all sitting here discussing this, anyways?" Margaret asked. "I'm sure she knew the risks when she came over here, and I personally think it was a very brave and noble thing for her to do. Why are we assuming that she doesn't have just the same chances of getting through her tour as any other soldier?"

"Because, Margaret, she's just a girl!" Frank told her. "Everyone know that girls can't fight!"

"Oh, really," she replied, folding her arms, and raising her eyebrows. "And why is that?"

"Now, now, that's not what we're discussing here," Henry said, interrupting the brewing spat, before Frank could stick his foot in his mouth again. "We're trying to figure out what to do with Sam, now that we have her here."

"I still say that we should send her home," Hawkeye said. "We could maybe try and talk with one of Hot Lip's – sorry, Margaret's – general friends, see if there's anything one of them could do. And besides, anything's better than an early grave."

Margaret shook her head. "No, General Hammond said that there's nothing he could do for her, and I doubt anyone short of Truman himself could keep her away from punishment."

"Well, we'll just place a call to Truman, then!" Hawkeye snapped. _Damnit, she's just a kid, she shouldn't have to get herself killed over here! Why can't they all see it?_ he thought.

"Don't be ridiculous, what reason would he have to pardon one random teenage soldier, when he's the one sending all the others over here to get killed?" Trapper huffed. "No, I'd say that lesser evil is letting her stay here. Maybe she'll get lucky and finish out her tour without getting too seriously hurt. Or maybe she will be, and then we'll actually get to send her home without condemning her."

"I agree," Margaret said, surprising most of the room. They had all previously thought that she would only ever agree with one of the two more jovial Swamp Rats when the hottest layers of hell froze over. "There's no reason why she can't have just the same chances as any other soldier. And that's what she came over here for – to fight for her country. I say we let her."

"Henry, what do you think?" Hawkeye asked.

"Well, I'm not quite sure," Henry replied; this statement, in turn, surprised exactly no one. "I mean, on the one hand, war is a dangerous game, and I think that we have a responsibility to do everything we can to ensure that Sam stays safe. On the other hand, there's no guarantee that she will be hurt over here – or at least, hurt again – while there's every possibility that, if we send her home on the basis that she never should have been over here in the first place, she'll end up spending the next part of her life behind bars."

"None of us should be over here, Henry," Hawkeye pointed out. "She just has a chance to use that to her advantage. Who are we to deny her that?"

"Have any of you considered just asking her?" Father Mulcahy asked. "She is, after all, a legal adult, and none of us really have any right to take such a step without consulting her first. Shouldn't we take her opinion into account with all of this?"

Silence fell in the room, each of them considering this new possibility. Eventually, Trapper spoke up. "Well, I guess that settles it then. Will you be the one to ask her father? Says in her files that she's Catholic, so she might like to talk to you anyways."

"Of course, I'll speak with her as soon as she wakes up," Mulcahy replied. He sighed internally; he didn't enjoy conflict, and was concerned by the way that everyone seemed ready to make such a large decision about another person's welfare without first consulting the individual in question. Free will was one of God's gifts, after all, and it would be a shame to squander it, especially in the case of such an apparently brave and noble young lady. "And when, may I inquire, might that be?"

"It's hard to say, Father," Trapper replied. "She seemed pretty worn out when she got here, on top of her injury, so she'll probably sleep for a while. She'll be in a bit of pain while she recovers, too, so I'm not sure how much she'll feel up to talking when she does wake up."

"Well, that's alright. Just let me know when she's ready, and I'll speak with her."

* * *

When Sam awoke, she was a bit confused. Her shoulder hurt, her ears were ringing, she had no idea where she was. When she looked to her left, trying to locate the source of the noise that had awoken her, she found herself looking at the backside of a woman with a blue feathered skirt and the hairiest legs she had ever seen.

_Wait, what?_

"Um," she started trying to say, the word breaking off painfully in her dry throat before she could finish.

"I'll be with you in a moment, soldier," the man (the person was either a man, or a woman with the strangest case of laryngitis that Sam had ever heard of) told her distractedly. As she settled back on her pillow to wait, she could see the man's spine tense up as he realized who it was who had been speaking. She painted a cocky smirk on her face as he whirled around to look at her, almost dropping the cup of oral thermometers he had been carrying around, retrieving from each of the conscious patients in the ward. "Sammie-girl! You're awake! Boy, has everyone 'round here been worried about you!"

Sam smiled hesitantly, not sure how to react to the nickname. She hadn't been called Sammie in years, not by anyone outside her family at any rate. "You're . . . Klinger, right?" she asked, voice coming out harsh and raspy. _Good Christ, how long was I asleep!?_

"Yeah, I sure am. Got it in one, too!" Now that he was facing her, she could see that his dress also featured a green top with the pattern of a peacock rendered on it in turquoise sequins. It was, she thought, an admirable effort – though certainly nothing compared to her brother's Halloween costume the year previously, where he had lost a bet and been obligated to dress up as his idea of a fashionable woman (honestly, the only people worse at judging women's fashion than men were, apparently, teenage boys). "Hold on just a minute, I'll ask one of the nurses to get you some water." As she smiled and nodded her thanks, he reached out and ruffled her hair, smiling at her. "I'll go and let everyone know that you're okay, too – poor Radar's just been up the walls with nerves since yesterday!"

She watched him amble off, the fluffy skirt of his dress flouncing dramatically behind him. A smile tugged at her lips, reopening the painful cracks that had built up. She shuddered as she tasted the blood in her mouth (_shotsscreamsironrednesswhatwhypleasenopleaseGodplease_), and gratefully accepted the water handed to her by a pretty nurse with dark eyes and pigtails. She closed her eyes as she drank in small sips, trying to calm her stomach and the raw emotions flooding her mind.

Her nerves felt completely shot after the violence of the previous day (_was it the previous day?_), and she was worried about her friends. She still didn't know what had happened to any of them, although she trusted Trapper to find out for her; Radar's letters had described him as a trustworthy person, if a bit of a clown at times. Even so, the lack of information had her on edge. If only she could know that they were, or would be, okay . . .

She was also nervous about what was going to happen to her after her stay at the 4077th. Would they try to send her home? Would they send her back out into the field? Or – and her heart skipped a beat as she thought about it – would she be allowed to stay and finish out her tour of duty there, where she could be safe, and useful, and surrounded by people who knew her story, knew who she was, and cared about her safety?

She wondered which option she would prefer.

* * *

_A/N: Again, thank you all so much for reading. I hoped you enjoyed, and I'll see you all next time!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Wow, another chapter already? What sort of benevolent Twilight Zone is this, lol? Actually, most of my heavy workload for the middle of the semester got taken care of before spring break, so I had some extra free time with which to write. So, here you go! :)_

_As always, I'd like to extend heartfelt thanks to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and reviews this story._

_Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

"Okay, now give your fingers a wiggle for me," Trapper instructed, studying Sam's obedient movements carefully. So far, her recovery seemed to be progressing well, but he wanted to be absolutely certain before he said anything.

"Well, do I get to keep them?" Sam asked, smiling cheekily. Trapper had to admit, he had taken quite a shine to the girl, and her sense of humor certainly helped.

"I think we might be able to work something out," he replied, inspecting the wound in her upper arm once more. "It'll cost you extra, though."

"Do I get a hometown discount, at least?"

"We'll see," Trapper replied, smirking. _Oh yes, quite a firecracker this one_.

Sam bit her lip for a moment, before speaking again. "Seriously, though, how does it look?" she asked, her voice suddenly small.

"It appears to be healing quite nicely," Trapper told her. "We'll get you started on some physical therapy exercises soon, but beyond that I don't think there's much more we can do for you here. It's just going to be a matter of time and rest."

Sam visibly relaxed, a genuine grin lighting up her face. "Great!" Then the grin faded from her face and she visibly hesitated, biting her lip. "Um, Trapper?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes?" he drawled out, adding about five extra syllables to the normally short word.

"What's going to happen to me now?"

_And isn't that the million dollar question_, Trapper thought. "Well, we were actually just having a discussion about that when Klinger came to get me," he told her.

Her eyebrows knit together. "Who's 'we?'"

"The main command staff: all of us Swamp Rats, Henry, Hot Lips, and Father Mulcahy," he replied.

"Oh," she said. "And what did you all decide?"

"Well," he said, mulling over how to phrase it, "I think the general consensus was to let you do most of the decision-making."

"Oh," she said again. She seemed to shrink back into the thin mattress and pillow, and Trapper was struck by just how young she really was. _Hawkeye's right, a kid like her doesn't belong in this hellhole. But what can we do? We can't just throw her to the piranhas and tell her to swim for it._

"I know this is a lot to take in Sam," he told her. "But you've already shown a great deal of strength and maturity, more than many people your age would have. I have faith that you'll make the right decision, and whatever you choose, you'll have the backing of everyone here at the 4077th."

A smile twitched on her lips. "Even Ferret Face?"

Trapper barked out a laugh. "Well, maybe not Ferret Face," he conceded. "But everyone else. And speaking of faith, I was wondering if you might like to talk with Father Mulcahy about all of this? He's a pretty good listener, and you can talk with him about anything else that might be bothering you, too."

He waited with bated breath as she considered it. _Good Lord, she takes her time, doesn't she?_ "Okay," she said at last. "That sounds like a good idea."

"I'll let him know that you'd like to speak with him, then," Trapper replied, making a note on her chart and flipping it closed. He watched her face light up in amusement as he stuck the pencil he'd been using into his hair for safekeeping. _Stuff's curly enough to hold it, might as well put it to some good use. It'd just be hanging out there looking decorative otherwise._ "Would this afternoon be okay? I know there's probably some stuff you want to get off your chest, but I'd like you to get a little more rest before any sort of strenuous conversation." Trapper eyed her, wondering how many orders he could get away with. Sam was the type of person who was fiery enough to be a difficult patient if she wanted to be; on the other hand, she seemed to also be a sweet girl, so she could also choose to make life easy for him. Well, easier, at any rate.

"That sounds good, I'm still pretty worn out," Sam replied.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Trapper said, relaxing minutely. "You had quite a day yesterday, from what I hear."

"Yeah," she nodded, then yawned wide. "By the way, did you hear anything about my friends?"

"No, sorry, not yet," Trapper replied. "We've been a little busy around here, as you could probably tell. I'll ask around, though."

"M'kay," she said, letting her eyes drift close. Trapper chuckled a little, amused by the blunt manner in which she ended the conversation.

He was glad, he reflected as he wandered down the aisle to check on another patient, to see her getting some rest. The poor girl certainly deserved it, and the dark circles under her eyes were proof enough of a history of sleep deprivation. He did worry, however, about what effect the events she'd witnessed may have had on her mental state. She seemed to be well-adjusted, enough so at least, but he'd not had a long enough conversation with her to really tell; and anyways, she'd spent most of her time at the MASH unit asleep, and for some people damage like that took more time to manifest itself than in others.

He made a mental note to check with Sidney Freeman, to get his opinion on the situation, maybe even ask him to come down and pay Sam a visit. It'd be good to have him back at the unit, anyways; the bastard still owed him fifty dollars from their last poker game, and Trapper was itching to collect.

* * *

Frank Burns eyed Hawkeye Pierce with irritation as he monkeyed his way around the tent, searching for a pair of clean socks. _Serves him right, keeping his portion of the tent in such a disgusting state_, Frank reflected.

Not that he would say that out loud, of course. Not today, at least. Not when he wanted to convince the man to help him rid their unit of a certain red-headed wench.

"Say, Hawkeye," Frank began, "what did you think of that little conversation back there?"

"What do you mean, what did I think, Frank?" Hawkeye responded, not missing a beat. "I thought I made it perfectly clear what I thought."

"And I agree with you," Frank said, doing his best to sound sympathetic. "She really doesn't belong here, does she?"

"She belongs at home," Hawkeye remarked, digging through his footlocker. Frank wrinkled his nose at the covers of the magazines being strewn across the floor. "She hasn't even finished high school yet. Her biggest problem ought to be a handsy boyfriend, not enemy raids or artillery."

And there he went again. Honestly, Frank just wanted the little brat out of his outfit; he didn't particularly care for Pierce's long-winded rants on the horrors of war. "If you ask me, she deserves to be sent home, and whatever else she gets after that. Who knows, maybe a few years in the clink would teach her some manners, prissy little upstart."

Hawkeye visibly froze, then turned to look at Frank, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Frank, I'd suggest that you either help me search for my socks, or you get out before I give you a bloody lip to match the lipstick marks Hot Lips left after your latest little rendezvous in the supply tent."

"Well, I never," Frank gasped, reflexively wiping the remnants of Margaret's makeup off of his cheek with his sleeve. "Major Houlihan and I are just colleagues, and good friends. To imply anything otherwise is just . . . just slanderous, that's what it is!"

"Then how did you know where to scrub?" Hawkeye bit out.

Frank froze. _Damnit, every time! Where do I go wrong?_ Unwilling to show defeat, he sneered in Pierce's general direction, and returned to his letter to his mother.

_Mama, did I tell you about the camp twerp's precious new girlfriend? She showed up here yesterday, after having come gallivanting to Korea to try to show off, taking all the glory away from her brother, who was the one who was actually drafted. No one here seems to understand how serious this all is, not even Major Houlihan, who is usually on my side. You just wouldn't believe the things everybody's been saying about me ever since this little brat showed up in the middle of a bunch of actual soldiers, wounded men, some of whom probably got hurt trying to make up for her incompetence . . ._

* * *

_"Give her back!" Sammi yelled, glaring at her brother with tears in her eyes. "She's mine!"_

_ Sammy laughed, wielding their mother's sewing scissors menacingly. "What'cha gonna do 'bout it, Sammi?" He tauntingly drew the scissors closer to the hair he clenched in his fist._

_ "Stop it!" Sammi shrieked. "Stop or I'll tell mom!"_

_ "Why would you do that?" Sammy said, suddenly oddly serious. "It's not like she can help you. Not anymore." He turned solemnly to the doll he had stolen off of Sammi's bed. She watched as he combed his fingers through the doll's hair – a fiery red, just like her own – and brought the scissors to it._

_ The first snip seemed to catch the girl like a physical blow, and she let out a furious screech as she watched her brother start to cut off the doll's hair. Barely aware of her actions, she leaped forward, grabbing for the doll, the scissors, her brother, anything and everything she could get her hands on._

_ Sammy looked up in surprise as his sister tackled him. He had thought it was just a game, didn't understand why it made her as angry as it did. It was only as she pinned him to the ground and started pummeling him, that he understood the gravity of his mistake._

_ "Sammi! Sammi, please stop! I'm sorry Sammi, I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry, please! Please stop! Stop, Sammi! Please, you're hurting me!" And on and on he begged, repeating the same words over and over, to no avail._

_ Sammi felt a tremendous satisfaction in the give of tender flesh under her knuckles, blood from her brother staining them bright red. She felt a heady feeling rush through her veins, a sense of incredible power filling her as she listened to Sammy's cries. This would teach him not to hurt her things anymore. This would teach everyone._

_ A flash of silver caught in the corner of her eye. She grinned widely as she caught sight of the scissors, which had been knocked to the side in the chaos. Keeping her weight on her knees, to make sure that her brother stayed pinned, she reached over and grabbed the scissors. She admired them, the gleam of the metal, the weight of them, the elegant point of the twin blades. Her reverie lasted for only a moment, though, as she quickly grew tired of her brother's incessant whining._

_ Well, that was easily remedied. Half horrified by what she was doing, but unable to stop it, feeling simultaneously in control of her actions and helpless to them, she raised the scissors high above her head, and brought them point-down towards her Sammy's throat, with as much strength as her little body could muster . . ._

Sam woke up retching. Ignoring the flares of pain in her body, she leaned to the side and emptied her stomach over the side of the bed. Dimly, she was aware of running footsteps approaching her, and cool hands reaching out to comfort her. She felt herself being guided back into the bed, to lean back against the pillows. She thought she saw a pair of concerned brown eyes, and dark hair held back in short pigtails.

After a time, she became aware that she was speaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, sorry, so sorry," over and over again. The repetition was so much like dream-Sammy's that it brought the images of the dream to the forefront again, and brought the nausea back with them. She started heaving again.

She was trembling, too, hard enough to shake the bed along with her body. She felt cold and hot and afraid and guilty, and she knew there was a reason that all of this was happening, but she just _could not remember what it was_.

The worst part of the dream was that it wasn't all a twisted fantasy. The doll had been one of a set, given to Sam and her brother by their grandmother when they were eight, the last birthday present they had received from her before she died. They had been a special commission from an expert doll maker, made to exactly resemble each of the twins. One day, little Sammy had decided that his sister's doll needed to have short hair, too, to match his own. Sam(mi) had discovered his plot just as he had begun shearing off the doll's locks. In the ensuing fight, she had split two of her knuckles to the bone, and knocked out five of her brother's baby teeth (an incident for which he blamed his permanent teeth's eventual crookedness, and his ensuing need for braces throughout junior high; Sam had told him that, as the incident had occurred years before, he really needed to get over it already, and that his teeth hadn't grown in that badly anyways).

She hadn't stabbed him though, although perhaps she might have tried if the twins' parents hadn't come running at the sound of their screams. And, unlike in the dream, Sammy hadn't simply lain there helplessly; he had been struggling and fighting back for all he was worth. It was without a doubt the worst row the twins had ever had, and it had been weeks before Sam had been willing to so much as acknowledge her brother's presence.

But with her mind hazy with fear and exhaustion, Sam wasn't able to analyze any of this, nor find any reason behind why the dream had happened, and why it had disturbed her so. All she knew, as a man with blue eyes and Groucho Marx glasses spoke urgently to the pigtailed nurse, and she felt a sharp pain in the side of her hip, was that she had the vague notion that, if the fight were repeated now, after all that had happened, she could do a lot worse than cut her brother's throat with sewing scissors.

The world faded out to the tune of a child's panicked screams.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next time!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Wow, this chapter did _not_ want to be written! I am so very sorry for how long it's taken. But here we are, lovelies, on chapter ten. The wait is over (for now, mwahaha)._

_Thank you to all who have read, favorited, and followed, and especially to ShigureAyameHatoriFanClub, Kuramasgirl19769, demonbarber14, and the two Guest reviewers for their reviews on the last chapter. All of your appreciation and support are the reason this story is still going._

_Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories._

* * *

When Sam woke, she decided it was just her fate in life to be confronted by the sight of strange men upon regaining consciousness. This time, it was a small, wiry man with mild features and wire-rimmed glasses, who appeared to be occupying himself with a knitting project of some sort.

Eyeing the length of fabric carefully, Sam croaked, "You dropped a stitch."

The man jumped, eyes darting up to hers. "Oh, you're awake," he gasped, fumbling with his knitting.

"About five rows down," Sam continued, attention narrowed in on the cloth. "Right there," she stretched over and jabbed her pointer finger at the gap in the fabric.

"Oh," the man said, looking at where she was pointing. "Oh, dear me, you're right. Thank you for pointing that out."

"May I?" she asked, gesturing towards the yarn.

"Of course, of course," the man said, handing his project over to her. He watched in interest as she began unravelling the last few rows, going back to correct his mistake. "I've been trying to teach myself, but it's been a rather difficult process, as you can see. I've always wanted to learn how to knit, and with the amounts of free time I sometimes get around here, I decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to learn." He observed her nod of acknowledgement, as well as her nearly exclusive attention to the knitting. She had reached the error, and was proceeding to re-stitch the rows. "How are you feeling?" he asked suddenly.

Sam jerked, and her fingers paused on the string. "Um, alright," she said, looking back at him. Looking closer, she could see the cross pinned on his lapel. "You're the priest, right? Father . . . um, sorry, I seem to have forgotten . . ."

"Mulcahy," he replied. "And that's quite alright. There's quite a few of us here to remember, and you've had a bit of a difficult time lately. Between you and me," he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a whisper, "I didn't learn the Colonel's name until about two months after I got here. I tried, of course, but I just couldn't get it to stick in my head."

Sam smiled a bit. "What did you do?"

"Won his dog tags off him in a poker game," the Father told her. "Got a good look at them, then gave them back to him the next morning, saying that I couldn't in good conscience keep them."

Sam giggled. "How very clever of you, Father."

"Yes, I quite thought so myself," he replied, smiling back. "But enough about me. I've heard that you had quite a nightmare earlier."

Sam stilled, the smile fading from her face.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Father Mulcahy asked gently.

Sam took a shaky breath, before shaking her head. "Sorry, Father, I'd really rather not," she replied.

The Father kept his even gaze directed at her for another few moments, before nodding in response. "Oh, that's quite alright, take your time. But I'm always here if you want to talk about anything," he told her. "Now, how exactly did you manage to fix that terrible mess I made?"

Sam smiled again, grateful for the change in subject. "Well, you see, the secret is to always keep track of the number of stitches you have on the needle. You want to make sure that you have each stitch accounted for in every row, and make sure you haven't actually dropped any . . ."

* * *

"Heya, Radar!" Klinger said, dropping his tray unceremoniously onto the mess hall table across from the clerk. 'How's it going?"

"Not too badly," Radar replied. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm great, I'm fantastic, I'm on top of the world!" Klinger exclaimed. "I figured out a great new dodge. This one'll really do the trick, you just wait and see." He dug into his food excitedly; apparently, he had forgotten where he was, as his face quickly morphed from one of eagerness to one of surprised disgust. His subsequent bites were much less cheerful.

"That's great Klinger," Radar replied. "Just, be a pal and don't do anything too big while Sam's here, alright? Don't want to attract the higher-ups's attention to her situation or nothin'."

Klinger nodded. "I'll do my best kid. How's she doing by the way? Heard she had a pretty rough night."

"I wouldn't know," Radar sighed, turning a spoonful of peas over and over. "I haven't been to see her since she woke up."

"Now why'd you do that?" Klinger asked. "Out of everyone here, I'm sure that you're the one she's looking forward to meeting the most!"

"I don't know, Klinger," Radar replied. "What if she doesn't like me?"

"Hey, don't be silly, kid," Klinger told him. "Why wouldn't she like you?"

"We've never actually met in person, you know," Radar said. "And she's probably got this whole image of me built up inside her head, and there's no way I'm gonna be able to live up to that!"

"C'mon kid, she's crazy about you!" Klinger answered. "She wouldn't have kept writing to you if she wasn't. And from what I've seen of her in person, she's just as good a person as she sounds in her letters."

"Well, I guess," Radar replied, absentmindedly shifting some gray peas around his tray with his fork. "I don't know. I just don't want her to be disappointed with me in person, you know?"

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Klinger assured him. "But she's stuck in bed, probably bored out of her skull with nothing to do. I'm sure she'd love some company, especially if it's the friend she's been writing to all this time."

"I heard she had a nightmare," Radar said.

"Yeah, a pretty nasty one, too." Both Radar and Klinger jumped as Trapper spoke. He and Hawkeye sat down next to the pair.

"I had to sedate her to keep her from injuring herself any farther," Hawkeye added. He wrinkled his nose as he looked at his food. "What is this supposed to be, cardboard mush and mud?"

"Meatloaf," Radar replied. "You really had to knock her out?"

"Yeah, she was thrashing all around," Hawkeye said. "You should go visit her today, see if you can give her something to be happy about."

Klinger nodded. "That's what I was just telling him! But the kid thinks that sweet Sammie wouldn't like him if she met him in real life."

"Klinger!" Radar blushed and hunched over, trying to shrink himself down in his seat.

Hawkeye and Trapper laughed. "Radar, that's ridiculous!" Hawkeye said. "She already likes you, her letters are proof enough of that."

"She was even worried about you when she came in," Trapper added. "Asked about you and everything, right while I was in the middle of stitching her back up. Wanted to know you were alright."

"But I can't just . . . go in and sit by her bed, can I?" Radar asked. "I mean, don't I need someone to introduce me or somethin'?"

"Radar, this isn't a Jane Austen novel," Klinger told him. "You can introduce yourself. And the two of you already know each other, remember?"

"Oh yeah," Radar said. He suddenly stood up and grabbed his tray.

"Hey, where're you going? Had enough of the cardboard?" Hawkeye asked.

"It's meatloaf, and I'm going to visit Sam," Radar replied.

"What, now?" Trapper said.

"Yeah, now!" Radar said. "Before I can chicken out again about it!" And he marched out of the dining hall like a man on a mission (the drama of which was slightly ruined by someone walking in at the same moment he was walking out, sending the door careening into his tray and the tray's contents down his shirt front).

* * *

The three watched him leave the mess tent. Klinger whistled. "Poor kid. He has a hell of a thing for timing."

"That he does," Trapper agreed, taking a bite of meatloaf before he could talk himself out of it.

"She's going to need him when she finds out what happened to her friends," Hawkeye muttered, turning a piece of mush over and over with his fork.

"Not doing well, huh?" Klinger asked.

"Not at all," Hawkeye said.

"Damn," Trapper muttered. "She was so worried, too. You know, I heard she helped carry them out. Even smothered the flames on that one, what was his name? That Trevor kid."

Hawkeye nodded. "Trevor Ryans."

"He that bad burn case?" Klinger asked quietly. "The one that went out on the truck last night?"

The three men all stilled. "Yeah, that was him," Hawkeye replied.

Trapper swallowed hard, the meatloaf sticking like glue in his throat. "I was planning on telling her this afternoon," he said. "I may postpone it 'til tonight, though, now that Radar's gone to sit with her. Give her a few more hours before she finds out."

"Sounds like a good idea," Klinger replied.

Hawkeye suddenly held up his plastic cup. "To Trevor Ryans," he said, holding it out towards the others.

Trapper and Klinger raised their cups as well. "Poor kid," Klinger remarked, as Trapper said, "God rest his soul." The three tapped their cups together, and silently returned to eating.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you all next time!_


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